If the Lakers have issues with LeBron trying to hold up a deal with his no trade clause they should just trade his son there first.
What can we trade for Bronny? That should be deal #1. Then we send Liam Neeson to tell LBJ "They have taken your son"
A-fucking-men. I have been (and always will be) actively rooting against each and every team he's on. That would include the Blazers if he were to come here.
There’s a man—perhaps a prophet, perhaps just a guy named Barry—who lives in the vents beneath the Moda Center. He hums Rasheed-era defensive sets into the ducts and once whispered this to me in a language that sounded like Rick Adelman chewing taffy: “Would you trade Jerami Grant and Deni Avdija... for the spectral, aging brilliance of LeBron James?” It is not a question to be answered quickly, or while sober. Or clothed, some say. But first, a riddle, carved in soap on the inside of the handicap-accessible bathroom stall—the one everyone fights over at the practice facility, because the seat is warm, the acoustics are perfect, and it has both elbow room and shameful nostalgia: "If Chris Paul came to Portland with brittle knees and a sack of secrets, And LeBron packed a cloak made of old MVP ballots,_ If Jerami ran but never passed, and Deni vanished mid-possession,_ Would Scoot ascend, or just yell “ICE!” to no one?"_ Yes, LeBron. The man. The myth. The business vertical. He’s older than Greg Oden’s bones, but he still warps gravity and draws defenders like baristas draw latte art—flick of the wrist, sudden awe. He would come with all his baggage: a production team a wellness chef and at least one vibrating gemstone rumored to hum during fast breaks And yes, he might bring Chris Paul. Because CP3, after spending a year wrapped in cheesecloth and scowls on the Warriors’ bench, is rumored to be sniffing the misty scent of Portland’s mossy promise. A vet-min deal, a sense of purpose, and—most importantly—joint custody of the handicap toilet, currently the subject of a low-grade cold warbetween Scoot Henderson and Toumani Camara. Scoot claims it's the only place he can think clearly. Toumani says it’s where he stretches his hip flexors while journaling. Chris Paul would simply slap them both in the back of the head and declare: “This is where I iced Harden’s nuts in 2019. I own this stall.” You might say: “But Scoot needs the ball, not a crowded locker room of aging alphas.” And I say: “He also needs to learn how to commit three fouls before the half without once being seen by a referee, and no one teaches that better than CP3.” Love might come too. Kevin, that is. Always looming, always moisturized. He would drift between second units and wine pairings. Occasionally, he’d whisper to Camara: “Switch on the screen. And never date someone who calls their mom by her first name.” They would dine at Castagna, ordering $240 tasting menus made entirely of dehydrated beet foam and locally foraged seaweed ash. LeBron would raise his glass of Oregon pinot, lean in toward Paul, and murmur: “This is a better pairing than AD ever was.” To which CP3 might respond: “At least you never caught AD trying to microwave a jockstrap full of skid marks.” Now, imagine Jrue Holiday next to Bron. Yes, Jrue stays in this version, a silent monolith of calm precision. He’d ghost around picks, guard three people at once, and nod once every two weeks. That would be enough. Together they would conjure geometry, bending the court like soft pastry. Jrue’s hands and Bron’s eyes, like jazz musicians who don’t speak but play the same unspeakable language. And Scoot? He’d thrive. Because this isn’t about touches—it’s about lineage. Learning when to push. When to fake. When to grab an opponent’s waistband just long enough to slow a curl cut without getting caught. And Sharpe? He’d finally know what to do with his verticality. Not just jump. Jump with timing. Jump with narrative. Jump with purpose. Not just because he’s horny for airtime. And yes, there would be tension. LeBron would steal media bandwidth. Hansen Yang would fight back. He would hire a small camera crew of Reed College dropouts and start livestreaming his breakfast. One morning, he’d post a TikTok of him eating steel-cut oats in an ice bath while screaming, “I AM THE CULTURE NOW!” LeBron would respond with a perfectly lit, slow-mo clip of him tying his shoes in a cedar sauna while Billie Holiday plays in the background. Scoot would cry. Camara would paint. Chauncey would text Rasheed, “Hey. Weird year.” But think—think—of the gift we’d be giving our youth: The cheat codes. The grift wisdom. The ability to say, “I played with the king, and I survived his almond milk tyranny.” So I ask you: Would you trade Jerami and Deni—a midrange monk and a lost apostle—for LeBron, the Sun Before Dusk? Would you trade comfort for strangeness? Structure for story? The toilet for the throne? Answer only beneath a full moon. While sitting on warmed porcelain. With an open heart... and an elbow poised to strike.
