“James, you have to be like LeBron,” Erik Spoelstra urged his player. “We need you to be like that for us or we’re going to suck forever.”
James Johnson looked up at his coach, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “I can’t, coach. I’m not good enough.”
“I believe in you,” Erik said firmly, gripping James by the shoulders. “You can do it. You can bring the dynamic playmaking and scoring ability that LeBron gave us once upon a time.”
“C-c-can’t you ask Derrick?” James replied tearily. “He still has potential to be a tweener forward with unstoppable scoring. I’m just a w-w-washed-up nobody.”
Erik shook his player’s shoulders lightly. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re way better than Derrick. He’s a spaz out there. He’s like a worse Michael Beasley. If anybody is going to go out there and make the fans forget that LeBron bolted back to his hometown team, it’s you. You’re the one with the size and build to replicate LeBron’s impact on the game.”
Wiping the tears out of his eyes and sniffling, James smiled a little. “You mean it, coach? You think I can go out there and give the team the production of a LeBron-type player?”
“Yes, because you ARE a LeBron-type player,” Erik answered confidently, happy that he was getting through to his player. “And, to be honest, you’re much less of a diva than he was. I’d rather have five James Johnsons than five LeBrons in my locker room, and that’s a fact. Don’t ever forget it.”
“I won’t, coach,” James said, his words now infused with a newfound pride in his abilities. “I’ll do my best for my team and my coach.”
“Not just me,” Erik said. “For you.”