Debunking the "Role Player" Myth

One of the most frustrating things to come out of yesterday's horrific "Dream Team" announcement has been the mass of people falling over themselves to doubt whether the Miami Heat can actually compete for championships (at least quickly).  There are two sides to their doubt.  First, they question whether James, Wade, and Bosh can peacefully coexist.  Admittedly that's a balancing act the league has never seen attempted.  But these guys (1) have rather complementary skill sets; (2) launched this idea while playing together on Team USA; and (3) seem to have thought this whole brothers-in-arms act out pretty thoroughly.  Let's say I'm intrigued by how they'll mesh, but not exactly dubious.**

But the maddening part is the second of the naysayers' arguments.  That one goes: By "wasting" all of their cap space on 3 of the leagues 10 best players, the Heat have crippled their title hopes by pricing themselves out of what really matters: quality "role players."  With only Mario Chalmers and about $8 million keeping the Superfriends company, people are in a panic about how the Heat can possibly fill out  the roster to compete.  In essence, how does James Posey get paid?

I, as much as anyone, want the Heat to fail.  But that question is asinine.

First let's breakdown the mythical "Role Player."  He's a team-first, hardworking, limited skill-set player who fulfills a particular—get this—role (defense, shooting, energy, etc.) that every roster needs.  The key to the role player is that he stops there: he maximizes his limited role, because that's all the team needs from him.  In other words, he's not that good.  Stars are stars in the NBA (like many other sports) because they  excel in a certain aspect of the game while not being a liability in others.  It's what separates Joe Johnson from Jamal Crawford.  And while you can find any number of elite shooters, scorers, rebounders, or defenders scattered throughout the NBA, it's rare to find elite ones who are also competent in the other areas of the game.

So the "Role Player" exists on championship teams not because he is rare but because he is so common.  More to the point, championship-caliber teams find a good balance of role players because they have the luxury of plugging specific holes, not because they unearth the most diamonds in the rough.  Meanwhile, bad teams (typically) founder because they can't find the elusive core to build around in the first place.  When you run the Charlotte Bobcats, you can't get out of the basement by signing a couple of energy players and a three-point specialist.  You have to find the two or three players that are going to do all of the other work first.  We see a lot of a bad teams filled with mismatched role players because they're searching for the one who will break through and be a real star.  We don't see many collections of stars fail because they can't find a Malik Rose.

The problem is that people conflate the need for a supporting cast for a single star with the need for a supporting cast for a core of stars.  The former is the hard part, and it's what has doomed so many players (LeBron in Cleveland, Garnett in Minnesota, Wade these past couple of years in Miami).  When a star can't reach the pinnacle on his own and people clamor for roster support, they don't mean Bruce Bowen and Robert Horry.  To win, an NBA team needs a superstar and a complementary supporting star as the second option.  Cleveland is a perfect example.  They've had a well-rounded roster for the past several years, but no real #2 option to carry the team when James is slumping.  They've got shooters, defenders, and energy guys to spare: Mo Williams, Anderson Varejao, J.J. Hickson, etc. are role players.  What they don't have is anything else.  And they've never reached the pinnacle because of it.

Conversely, look at the recent Big Three in Boston.  Once the Celtics had assembled their star core of Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen, and Paul Pierce, the rest fell into place immediately.  They won right off the bat, because guys like Kendrick Perkins, Big Baby Davis, Tony Allen, James Posey, etc. are not difficult to find.  The same is true for Duncan & Parker; Kobe, Gasol, and Odom; Shaq & Kobe; etc.

People forget that, relative to other sports, basketball is played with very small teams.  Three stars account for 60% of a team's starters, and, if they each average 36 minutes per night, by themselves, bring in 45% of their team's total minutes.  (For the record, James has played 40 mpg for his career, Wade 38 mpg, and Bosh 37 mpg.)  Then remember that these three stars are all among the top ten players in the league (and two of the league's top three).  Imagine giving a baseball team five of the league's best hitters, three of its best starting pitchers, and a handful of its best relievers.  Or give a football team an elite quarterback, running back, and receiver, three top offensive linemen, and half a dozen of the league's best defensive starters.  When there's only half a game left take care of, it shouldn't be surprising that teams find sentient beings capable of filling those other minutes.

After the jump, I'll look at some recent championship rosters (and some fabled championship "role players"), and compare them to what the Heat stand to get this off-season.

LeBron's Antics: Confirming What We Already Knew

Despite speaking virtually no words in public, LeBron James has managed to turn the 2010 NBA free agency period into the most exhausting prima donna act of his career.  This week's courtship has been a long time coming for the King.  For the past two years, James has openly flirted with his 2010 suitors—from marketing not one but two pairs of special NYC themed sneakers to professing his "love" for the Windy City—and now that this week finally arrived, he's made the most of it.  As the free agency period officially opened in July, James narrowed his list of potential destinations to a few key teams and granted them exclusive access to his Highness. James demanded that those teams fly out to meet him, in an order of his choosing, at a not-so-secret compound in Cleveland.  He sauntered in and out of those meetings in a t-shirt and shorts, all the while refusing to acknowledge the media.

Most recently, James has ratcheted the pretension a notch (or ten) further.  On Tuesday, James debuted his Twitter page (a site he previously poked fun at) along with a new website.  "Hello world, the Real King James is in the Building," he announced.  James then showed up to his Cleveland-based prep basketball camp several hours late and promptly ordered all media out of the gym so that he and his boys could scrimmage the college and high school kids in privacy.  That night,  ESPN announced that the King's camp had requested (and been granted) an hour long primetime special on the network Thursday evening to announce his free agency decision.  You know, kind of like 17 year-old kids do every year; but 59 minutes longer. 

Predictably, James's self-promotion—and namely his prime time special ("The Decision")—has drawn the ire of a number of fans and commentators.  But, more puzzlingly, it has also drawn their surprise.  Brian Windhorst, Cavs beat writer and follower of James since his time at St. Vincent's St. Mary's, tweeted that James had "changed."  Writers at ESPN.com and Sports Illustrated seem to agree, and everyone's worried that, suddenly, LeBron has tarnished his image—or even his legacy.  

But how is any of this surprising?  At all?

LeBron James has been one of the America's most celebrated athletes since he joined the NBA.  He has also been one of its most arrogant.  The first time the world saw James, he was a 17 year-old kid with stickers covering a couple of tattoos on his arms (a lion wearing a crown and the word "beast") and his jersey covering an even more telling one across his back—it reads "Chosen 1."   He had also warmly embraced the nickname "King James" and was driving a Hummer.  

In his seven years in the league, James has added some new art and plenty more arrogance.  He's tattooed "Witness History" down his calves, "Hold My Own"  and "What we do in life echoes in eternity" on his biceps, and "Gifted Child" on his chest.  At 19, he announced that he wanted to the the first billionaire athlete, and he's since hobnobbed with billionaire and not-even-close-to-billionaire moguls alike.  But James isn't pinching his pennies; like any good superstar, the King dresses flashy, drives flashier, and rolls around with an entourage (all of whom, at James's request, Nike designed personalized logos and sneakers for).   He's even started passing his personal legacy onto his two sons: LeBron Jr. (aka "Prince James") and Bryce Maximus. 

On the court, where James proudly proclaims that he has been endowed with "special powers" that allow him to play "above time," James is just as self-important.  It's not his playing style—James is well-known to selflessly spread the ball around on offense.  But everything around the game itself is all about James.  He enters games like Deion Sanders celebrated touchdowns,  personally orchestrates team celebrations, and dances like an idiot while the game is going on.   And, in sourer times, we've seen him sulk (or perhaps quit) on the court and, worse, send Nike's henchmen to confiscate video of him being dunked on at his camp.  

This has been LeBron's public persona since he's had a public persona, and we've simply excused it.  I'm as guilty as anyone.  I typically ridicule arrogant athletes, but I've always been a fan of James.  Maybe because he is funny and charming, maybe because for all of his arrogance and self-infatuation he seems like a pretty nice guy, or maybe because he is just so damn good.  For some reason LeBron is a fan—and media—favorite, and it certainly isn't because he's humble. 

After nearly a decade of the James era, LeBron's lastest step in his inexorable quest to replace Michael Jordan in both game and image is neither surprising nor offensive.  At most, his act is a bit tired, but that's only because we've all seen and coddled it for so long.