THE TOES OF A G.O.A.T.

Why Lebron's mangled foot proves he's the best to ever do it.

Before I begin, it’s important to divulge that I was born in the suburbs of Chicago. In 1991. For me, Michael Jordan is God. He is the most exciting athlete who has ever lived. He is bigger than Taylor Swift, George Washington, Caitlin Clark, and RuPaul combined. In my heart, no one will ever touch Air Jordan...but in reality, after much deliberation and soul searching, I feel I must finally admit that LeBron James is the GOATiest G.O.A.T. to ever float my little midwestern boat.

Let me explain.

The thing about greatness is that it’s fundamentally unquantifiable. Debating stats, awards, championships, and dumbass shit like “G.O.A.T. Points” will never amount to anything resembling a legitimate answer. For example, if you look at scoring and team winning percentage, it is reasonable to contend that Shai Gilgeous-Alexander is this year’s Most Valuable Player. It’s even possible that he might win the award over Jokic—but only because the NBA MVP voters don’t understand what the word “valuable” means.

Speaking of Jokic, there are few more convincing cases that, when it comes to assessing talent, even the most experienced scouts and experts don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. In an era in which the NBA has started using AI to predict whether players are injury prone, it’s easy to forget that Jimmy Butler becomes an entirely different person in the playoffs and unicorn-level stars like Wemby can develop thoracic outlet syndrome. That’s why, until humans take the last remaining fun out of life by inventing crystal balls, foresight will never be 20-20, hindsight will forever be even worse, and the greatest joy of sports will always be the fundamental impermanence of human talent.

And that brings me back to Big Bron—because no athlete has ever laughed in the withered face of impermanence quite like King James. The man has been dunking on haters since before Steven A. Smith stopped watching NBA games. He’s been making elite basketball decisions since before Wemby was born. He’s got Father Time on his hip in the post, and he’s backing that motherfucker down.

MegaBron’s unique combination of dominance and longevity is insane. It’s amazing. It’s borderline extraterrestrial. And, until recently, it hasn’t been enough to convince me that he’s a greater basketball player than Michael Jordan.

But then I saw his left foot.

I’m going to include a photo of this majestic appendage toward the bottom of this stupid essay, but just in case you’re eating, I am going to hold off for a few paragraphs. Because Air Akron’s foot is terrifying and disturbing and, frankly, nasty as fuck. It’s also kind of sexy if you’re a freak like me who finds pain vaguely arousing, but I’m going to assume you’re normal and simply describe the photo before you’re forced to witness it.

The nails are battered and yellow. The foot flesh is calloused and angry. And then there’s the toes. The big one, devastated by a lifetime of leaping and crashing, twists under the second like it’s trying to hide. And his pinkie toe reminds me of the first time I experienced testicular torsion. In fact, if you stare at that twisted little piggy long enough, the spiraling form becomes its own kind of truth. It spins like an Uzumaki apparition, hypnotizing your monkey mind and whispering basketball wisdom like “you can’t be afraid to fail” and “don’t talk shit about Bronny” and “I don’t read books much.”

I believe the actual Mayo Clinic term for whatever the fuck is happening to LeBron’s foot is “capsulitis,” but I’d prefer to think of it as “G.O.A.T.T. Syndrome.” The second T in my made-up term obviously stands for Toe, and I believe a single glance at this foot tells you more than human language can ever hope to say about sacrifice, endurance, indomitability, courage, and greatness. I mean, take a gander:

I literally cannot look upon this shit without feeling deep physical pain myself, so I can only imagine what Old Uncle Laker feels every time he hobbles onto the court. Or oops an alley from Luka. Or hits a one-legged three like he’s out here playing H.O.R.S.E. against twenty-five-year-old superstars.

Above all else, it’s that pain, that hunger, that total disregard for his body that sealed the deal for me. I know all professional athletes endure a significant amount of suffering throughout their careers, and I know Bill Walton had like six hundred surgeries on his lower body, but no one, no one else, in the history of this game, has played this long, this well, with this many different teammates, on a foot that looks like Guillermo Del Toro drew it.

So, please allow me to apologize: I am deeply, truly sorry Michael Jordon. I love you. You were, and still are, amazing. You will always be my favorite player, gambler, outfielder, golfer, and ultra-competitive alcoholic billionaire. But at the end of the day, your toes are a whole lot straighter than I’ll ever be—and for the sake of this argument, that matters.

Until next time: No stats. Just truth. Dunk Screaming.