Michael Pina is a contributing writer for Hardwood Paroxysm. Here’s his voice joining the chorus of disgust towards LeBron. My own manifesto about James is still percolating and should be ready for publication right when the timeliness has past us by -Ed.

A few nights ago, after the most egomaniacal, self-centered, inconsiderate hour of television ESPN has ever aired mercifully ended, pundits, analysts, and professional journalists (or so they say) spent hours exploring the semi-shocking decision Lebron James had made to leave his hometown team for more silicone prevalent pastures in Miami.  James, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh were each hailed by the network for sacrificing their respective financial incomes to accommodate one another as future teammates.  The three were treated as selfless heroes; as if they’d renounced all their material possessions for the rightful cause of winning a championship.

James, unsurprisingly, received the most praise.  By signing a six-year, $110 million contract (Wade’s contract is six-years for $107 million) Lebron will be leaving roughly $15 million dollars on the table.  $15 million that he could have earned had he re-inked with Cleveland, but lets not be naïve.  James has endorsement deals with McDonalds, Nike, Glaceau (makers of Vitamin Water), Sprite, and State Farm (to name a few).  Five years ago he had earned approximately $135 million from endorsements alone and as of 2008, his worth was speculated to be at least $270 million.  In 2007 he was named number one on Forbes’ 20 under 25 list, beating out movie stars and other athletes alike.

He’s previously stated in interviews that his focus is 80 percent on basketball and 20 percent on business, and with his financial income from endorsements upstaging his NBA contract, a loss of $15 million dollars over six years isn’t the end of his world for him, the most popular athlete on the planet.

Now that financial matters have been covered (consider that point this column’s dead horse), lets now move onto basketball related concerns.

His decision to spend at least five years in Miami is groundbreaking (Wade, Bosh, and James each have player options on the final year of their respective deals).  Looking at the public persona James and his team of managers and agents have created, could anything else really be expected? By replicating what Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, and Ray Allen did in the latter stages of their career in the prime of his, James has made the most grandiose move imaginable, all the while looking like championships are the central source of his motivation, when in fact, his move seems to be most predicated on fear.  By moving onto Miami, a team that already boasts one of the game’s most consistent scorers in Dwyane Wade, James won’t be the only one on the hook should they disappoint in the postseason. The blame will ultimately be shouldered by both Wade and James (Chris Bosh will never have to worry).  Had he gone to Chicago or New York, within two years’ time his team would be one of, if not the best team in basketball.  That’s how talented he is.  But by choosing to join forces with a rival as opposed to salivating over the chance at going head to head against him, James revealed to the world that he simply doesn’t have that inner aura about him to lead a team to a championship.

No superstar has made a move like this, in his prime, for a reason.  It’s selfish, risky, and to be frank, not worth it.  Today James stands alone as the most hated man in his sport. (Somewhere, most likely all by his lonesome, Kobe Bryant is cackling.) He’s trailblazing a path no once-in-a-generation talent should take because it not only demolishes his chances to be the greatest player to ever live, but it does a disservice to the game of basketball.   The titles will come, but not this year.  With the Celtics, Lakers, and Magic all molded, experienced units familiar with each others idiosyncrasies, chances of winning a title are slimmer than Vegas seems to think. (Odds in Vegas have the Heat prohibitive favorites at 9-5.)  But two or three years down the road, when Wade, James, and Bosh are cocooned by a solid, savvy bench, what does the league have to look forward to? The Miami Heat are clear cut favorites to dominate basketball for years to come. Unless, of course, Oklahoma City can play the good guy.

Now that the move was made and this inconceivable team was created, the respect level for Lebron James goes straight to the cellar in the eyes of former players and basketball purists.

Kevin McHale called it a reality show, Charles Barkley questioned why at 25 Lebron didn’t want to be the man, and Reggie Miller accurately speculated that one ring in Cleveland would symbolically equate with two or three in Miami.  It’s almost as if those greats were saying to themselves, “Wait a second. I could have jumped ship, burned bridges, sacrificed millions of fans, and thrown loyalty in the garbage all for a ring, but thank goodness I didn’t.” (As was the case with Reggie Miller.)  Not to take anything away from Steve Kerr or John Paxon, but Michael Jordan wasn’t feeding Miller in crunch time. They went against each other.  It’s the fundamental element that makes the league so wildly popular and intriguing.  Competition.  What do you do when your league’s best player isn’t interested in going to Chicago, where rebounds aren’t an issue and the point guard is an all-star? Instead of facing off against Wade and Bosh with his own troops, Lebron chose the easiest, least stressful alternative.

From a legacy perspective, James is pitiable. In the end, he figuratively can’t win.  Should the Heat go on a dynastic tear over the next four or five seasons (impossible to say with their current makeup) and win ring after ring, doubters will always point to his admittance of help as proof of him being a third-rate competitor.  Isn’t it the role of a superstar to start the party instead of jumping on board like a mercenary once the dust has settled?  Is Lebron not a great player?  That question, to anyone who’s ever watched him play, is obviously hilarious.  Lebron James is going to the Hall of Fame.  But by moving onto Miami with not a single finals victory under his belt, Lebron can never be as great as he’s had us believe these past 10  years.  Truly a shame, because physically there’s no question he has it all for the taking. But mentally something is clearly missing.

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When I watch players who are infinitely more athletic than I am play the game of basketball, sometimes I close my eyes and wonder what it’d be like, if just for a day, I had their ability.  I don’t imagine myself incarnating Kobe Bryant or Lebron James like the 12-year-old Josh Baskin once did Tom Hanks.  Instead, I wish their skill sets would inhabit my 5’ 10”, 165 pound body. Give me the first step of Dwyane Wade or Tony Parker’s incredible ability to finish at the rim and to keep me from playing, you’d have to peel me from the blacktop.

There’s one player who sits near the top of my wish list who probably doesn’t belong with the rest. He’s no household name, has no sneaker deal and was likely never asked to appear in a Gatorade commercial. He’s not a superstar, has never been named to an all-star game or even averaged 13 points per game.  Forget about guessing who it is.  Not only does he come off the bench, but his name won’t be listed by any credentialed beat writer as a serious sixth man candidate. The player?  Give up? The one…the only…Delonte West!

I view and admire his skills on a regular basis as having the complete game I’d like to show off in a Rec League. The way he attacks the basket with a rare, ferocious toughness.  The way he never backs down on defense and single handedly (pardons to Paul Pierce) seems to be revitalizing the mid-range jump shot.

Right now his usage percentage is the highest its ever been as a Cavalier.  He upped his numbers in points, rebounds and assists from the regular season to the playoffs last year and despite a sad, ongoing struggle with a bi-polar disorder, is widely regarded by those who play and travel with him as an amiable character.

So what else is to like? First off he’s left-handed. Depending on what your take is on south paws, whether you think their awkward looking or seamlessly smooth, I’ve always found it harder to guard a quick lefty.  He’s both instant offense and rugged defensively. His range stretches to the three-point line—crucial on a team that possesses Lebron—but he seems to prefer pulling up off the dribble, for that lethal yet dieing art form.

In the first sentence of West’s 2010 Basketball Prospectus profile, the former St. Joseph’s standout is said to be lacking at greatness in any one particular skill, “but good, or at least average, in virtually every facet of the game”.  It’s an incredibly apt description for an underdog who’s been able to carve a personal niche among the best players in the world.  His handle is superb, able to direct the ball between his legs in a way that isn’t flashy, but useful and with purpose.

According to HoopData.com, West is one of three players on Cleveland who have a higher field goal percentage from 16-23 feet than the percentage assisted on those attempts, meaning he’s more than capable of scoring and creating offensive opportunities on his own from the perimeter.  The other two are Lebron James and Mo Williams.  Between 10-15 feet, only Shaq has a lower percentage on assisted field goals.

He’s self-effacing on one of the leagues most flamboyant teams and lacks any sort of off the court need for attention all the while being loved by his teammates.  Earlier this season, Lebron said West was the funniest guy in Cleveland’s locker room (on a Shaquille O’Neal team none the less).

Delonte West plays the same position as Dwyane Wade, Kobe Bryant, Brandon Roy and Joe Johnson.  At barely 6’ 3” and 180 pounds, when he goes up against those guys it’s like he’s entering the Indy 500 with a lawnmower.

I first caught him when he was in college, but was far more impressed with Jameer Nelson to pay any real attention.  Then he was drafted by my Boston Celtics and became a member of a franchise that stood mired in decrepit disappointment.  If he wasn’t the answer, then he was apart of the problem, and thus I ignored his abilities.

Now, irony is biting my behind.  West is in Cleveland and should face off against the Celtics in what will surely be a hard fought, no love lost,  seven-game battle in the second round. He’s someone who plays the game with passion, skill and a fearless demeanor no true fan could afford to disparage.

Tim Duncan’s brilliant career went parallel with my formative years.  My first pimple, my first shave, my junior and senior prom, the day my family brought home our Bichon Frise.  I  grew up with Tim, and even though he’s led a life hidden from the starlight he deserves, I feel like I knew him.

Duncan was the first, truly great player in my life whose entire career I was able to monitor. The Gillete shaving cream commercials with David Robinson, and the Inside Stuff “Twin Towers” magazine cover.  He was supposed to be the savior of my Boston Celtics; the great franchise’s next dominant icon.  Instead he went to a Spurs team that already boasted a hall-of-fame center. I knew, at the age of 9, that San Antonio’s acquisition of Tim Duncan was borderline unethical, but with his ceiling no stronger than a spider’s web, the situation intrigued me.

Not only was he unstoppable on the block, but he was able to directly make his teammates better as a brilliant passer from the high post. All of a sudden, San Antonio, Texas became a hotbed for serviceable, but aging players looking to set sail on their careers with a championship ring. Guys like Steve Smith, Steve Kerr, Danny Ferry, Robert Horry, Glenn Robinson and Michael Finley were coming far and wide to play with Tim Duncan.

Once Jordan retired it was his league.  The NBA was just beginning to enter an era of individual importance filled with eight and nine figure contracts, attention seeking rap albums, movie deals and overwhelming body art.  Duncan defied all of that while standing out as basketball’s best player, making his teammates better, banking shot after shot off the left side of the backboard.

Like most people who play the game of basketball—whether it be on a black top where a foul requires blood shed as evidence or in an old man rec league—the way they play reflects who they are inside. This in no way is a discussion involving skill level, instead it’s all about diving on the floor or blocking out a teammate’s man who managed to get loose. President Obama wasn’t allowed a second date with Michelle until he showed her brother Craig what kind of man he was. The two didn’t cavort over dinner or gab over 18 at a nearby public coarse. They played basketball.  A wordless game, aside from groans, grunts, and the occasional obscenity, that can tell one all he needs to know about an opponent or teammate. Tim Duncan epitomizes this philosophy.  He was quiet.  He was methodical.  He did what he wanted, when he wanted and his game literally talked for him. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but I’d bet a good sum that despite all the money he makes, Duncan doesn’t live a lavish lifestyle. Why have 17 cars when one or two will do the job?  Why spin and fade-away when a simple shot off the glass counts for just as many points?

With 14 seconds remaining and the Spurs up by 2 in a recent contest against Oklahoma City, Duncan set a high pick for Ginobli who drove left towards the basket. Duncan simultaneously rolled to the hoop, caught a pass from Manu about four feet from the basket.  Instead of taking two steps and setting himself up for a game clinching dunk, Duncan flipped a finger roll at the front of the rim.  Thunder center Serge Ibaka thanked Tim for the gift, then ceremoniously slammed the basketball off the backboard.  The Thunder recovered with a chance to win the game.

To watch Duncan play right now is heartbreaking. It’s (almost) like staring at an old picture of a polio stricken Roosevelt, curbed to his wheelchair. Or, for a more athletically appropriate analogy: Willie Mays batting .211 in 66 games as a 42-year-old New York Met, Michael Jordan overshooting the rim on a dunk attempt while in Washington or Pedro Martinez donning a Phillies cap for one last hurrah in Yankees Stadium.

According to the Elias Sports Bureau, “Tim Duncan made only 2 of 11 field goals, 18 percent, in the Spurs loss on March 24. It’s the third time in his last 19 games that Duncan had made less than 20 percent of his shots from the floor, something he did only six times in 947 games to that point in his career.”

Not one to overreact with a small sampling of statistics, but when those stats disparage a player who’s great claim to fame has been remarkable consistency, then it’s at the very least worth noting.

If this is the end for Tim, I just want to say thank you.  Throughout your career you personified a style of play that can only be described as professional perfection and in doing so, served as a role-model for thousands of young basketball players striving for success. You’re a first-ballot hall-of-famer and could go down as the greatest power forward to ever play (even if center was always a more suitable label). Thanks to outstanding defensive play, your career, more likely than not, should last at least four more seasons barring injury.  But the Tim Duncan who could throw a team on his back is gone forever, and it’s truly a sad thing to see.