Lebron James
It was a Monday morning in late March. Normally, LeBron James would have been in homeroom at St. Vincent, dressed in school clothes, with a backpack containing books strapped over his shoulders. Instead, he was in a locker room at a rec center in the suburbs of Cleveland, putting on his work clothes. Moments later he stepped onto the court for a practice session one day prior to the McDonald’s All-American high school basketball game.
Scouts from all twenty-nine NBA teams were on hand for the workout. Since none of the other all-Americans had yet entered the gym, all eyes were on LeBron in his red McDonald’s jersey. His six-eight, 240-pound frame was thick with muscle through the shoulders, chest, and thighs. His chiseled figure didn’t appear to have an ounce of body fat. It was hard not to gawk at his supernatural athleticism. With an ethereal forty-four-inch vertical leap, the top of LeBron’s head was above the rim when he dunked. At eighteen, he could already jump higher than every player in the NBA. When the other high school all-Americans began trickling onto the court, the contrast between LeBron and them was stark. They were all pro prospects, tall and skilled. But LeBron was far more physically imposing, a man among boys. The scouts were also attuned to the more subtle distinctions, noting that LeBron had a habit of being the first person on the court for practice and the last one to leave. The rare combination of superior skill and indomitable drive was a priceless commodity in the commerce of professional sports.
Perhaps the most difficult thing for a scout to ascertain was what was going on inside a prospective player’s head. At a time when some of the McDonald’s all-Americans were still figuring out which college to play for in the fall, LeBron had much weightier matters on his mind. For a long time, he’d viewed it as his responsibility to provide a comfortable home, a car, and lifetime financial security for his mother. The time had come for him to formally notify the NBA in writing that he was entering the draft, where he was a lock to be the number one overall pick. He also had to choose between the three shoe companies vying for his services, a decision that would affect his net worth much more than which NBA franchise he ended up joining. But before dealing with the NBA or the corporations that were already lining up to offer him lucrative endorsement deals, LeBron had to choose a sports agent to help him navigate his next moves. It was a lot to contemplate for a high school senior.
Most NBA insiders figured that LeBron would sign with someone like Arn Tellem, who was generally regarded as one of the most powerful agents in the league. Tellem controlled more than 15 percent of the league’s players, including many of the game’s biggest stars. He was also close to Sonny Vaccaro—the former Nike executive, now at Adidas, who signed Michael Jordan to his first sneaker deal—who thought he’d be a good fit for LeBron. Another leading candidate was Leon Rose, who was tight with NBA power broker William Wesley. Although LeBron respected both Vaccaro and Wesley, neither of them tried to influence his thinking on agents.
Ultimately, LeBron went in a different direction. In the spring, he quietly settled on forty-two-year-old Aaron Goodwin as his agent. Goodwin stepped into an unprecedented situation—LeBron was positioned to become one of the richest athletes in the world even before playing his first NBA game. Agents take a commission on every endorsement deal they close. With the negotiations with Nike, Reebok, and Adidas headed for uncharted territory, Goodwin turned to attorney Fred Schreyer to help him navigate the offers. It was a shrewd move on Goodwin’s part. Schreyer was the general counsel and chief financial officer for the Professional Bowlers Association. But prior to joining the PBA, Schreyer had been a senior executive at Nike, where he had handled the company’s biggest shoe contracts with athletes. No one was more versed in dealing with Nike than Schreyer. And Schreyer would be invaluable in scrutinizing the competing offers from Adidas and Reebok.
At the end of April, LeBron stood at a podium in the St. V gymnasium and declared that he was forgoing college and entering the NBA Draft. Looking out at his friends, fellow students, and more than fifty journalists from around the country, he paused, remembering that time in middle school when he had written “NBA” three times on a three-by-five card after his teacher assigned him to list three careers that interested him. “It’s been a longtime goal,” LeBron told the audience. “And I’m happy it’s finally coming true.”
Days later, LeBron stepped into the boardroom at Reebok’s headquarters outside Boston. Accompanied by his agent and his lawyer, LeBron sat next to his mother, Gloria, at the longest table he’d ever seen. Maverick Carter, one of LeBron's closest friends, took a seat at the table, too.
Reebok CEO Paul Fireman welcomed everyone and made it clear to LeBron from the outset that his company was prepared to treat him as the most important athlete in Reebok’s history. It was a not-so-subtle way of distinguishing Reebok from Nike, where LeBron would be in a crowded field of superstar athletes.
Todd Krinsky, an executive over Reebok’s clothing and shoe division, outlined the company’s new initiative to blend music and sports in hopes of appealing to hipper, younger consumers. Reebok had just signed Jay-Z to an endorsement deal that included his own signature sneaker, the S. Carter. Reebok was also working on a deal with Pharrell Williams. And Reebok put LeBron in the same category as these entertainers. LeBron was a next-generation athlete with tremendous crossover appeal.
After the presentation, Reebok put its offer on the table: $100 million over ten years.
The room fell silent.
LeBron was astounded. Sonny Vaccaro had told him he was worth a hundred million. But that number had always felt more magical than literal.
Gloria’s eyes welled up.
Aaron Goodwin tried to maintain his composure. He hadn’t been expecting a nine-figure offer from Reebok.
Neither had Fred Schreyer, who remembered when Tiger Woods had turned pro, in 1996, and Nike signed him to a five-year endorsement deal worth $40 million. It was the most lucrative shoe deal ever offered to an amateur athlete. Reebok’s offer to LeBron blew the Tiger deal away.
Looking to close, Paul Fireman pulled out a pen and reached for a check.
LeBron had no idea what Fireman was doing at the other end of the table.
Fireman signed the lower right-hand corner and slid the check across the table.
Goodwin picked it up and noted the amount: $10 million, made pay- able to LeBron James.
Goodwin showed it to LeBron and Gloria. Gloria cried.
LeBron stared at all those zeros.
The check in LeBron's hand offered an escape from all of that. It was an instant ticket to a new life. All he had to do was say yes.
Fireman’s proposition to LeBron was simple—sign with Reebok now and he’d walk out the door with a $10 million advance.
Sweating, Maverick stood and undid the top buttons on his shirt. Holy shit, he thought. This shit is real.
Goodwin and Schreyer needed a moment to confer with their
client.
Fireman gave them the room. He and Krinsky stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind them.
Gloria was vocal. She didn’t see what there was to confer about. Reebok’s offer surpassed everyone’s expectations. LeBron could walk out the door an instant millionaire ten times over.
LeBron was at a loss for words. He’d just flown in from Akron. He lived in the projects. Their subsidized rent was around $22 a month. His mother was unemployed and had to pay for groceries with food stamps. The check in his hand offered an escape from all of that. It was an instant ticket to a new life. All he had to do was say yes.
Gloria was ready to walk out with the check.
Goodwin wanted everyone to take a beat. Reebok’s offer was off the charts. And Fireman had made a bold move by putting $10 million on the table. But this was a preemptive bid, one that was intended to preclude LeBron from talking to Adidas and Nike. Goodwin reminded LeBron that the game plan was to meet with all three companies before deciding.
Schreyer agreed. Although it was nerve-racking to turn down $100 million, he felt that the prudent move was to wait and see what Adidas and Nike had to offer.
Holding the check, LeBron felt torn.
Fireman and Krinsky reentered the room and took their seats. Stoic, LeBron pushed the check back to Fireman.
Fireman and his team were disappointed. But they couldn’t help being impressed. Todd Krinsky looked on in amazement as LeBron left Reebok’s headquarters that evening. He’s a man already, Krinsky thought. He knows what’s about to come to him.
On his way to homeroom the following morning, LeBron thought: Holy shit! I can’t believe I left that on the table.
He didn’t dwell on the thought very long. It was a Friday and LeBron’s classmates were gearing up for senior prom that weekend. But LeBron had other plans. As soon as school let out, he hustled off to an airfield, where a private jet awaited. The plane had been chartered by Sonny Vaccaro to whisk LeBron to Los Angeles for the pitch meeting with Adidas. There were enough seats on the luxury aircraft for LeBron’s friends and advisors. Everyone climbed aboard.
Sonny had long admired the way LeBron always tried to include his high school teammates in everything he did. At LeBron’s request, Sonny had secured courtside seats for them to take in that night’s playoff game between the Spurs and the Lakers. A limousine picked up LeBron and his friends at LAX and delivered them to the Staples Center. Wearing a fake diamond in each ear, a backward Lakers cap, and an unzipped letterman jacket over a white T-shirt, LeBron entered the arena as if he were stepping into a future home. Hollywood moguls, pop stars, actors, and athletes occupied the seats closest to the court. The Laker Girls danced. Music pulsed. And Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O’Neal were trying to lead the Lakers to a fourth consecutive NBA championship. But the Spurs, led by David Robinson and Tim Duncan, stood in the way. The atmosphere was alluring.
Partway through the second quarter, Shaq was whistled for his second foul. Dressed in black and wearing Ray-Bans, Jack Nicholson rose from his courtside seat and tore into the referees. With his new movie, Anger Management, atop the box office charts, Nicholson shouted and pointed his finger as if he were in character, revving up the crowd. When the referees told him to sit down, Nicholson got louder. “This is the NBA!” he barked. “You can’t tell me to sit down.”
Egged on by Nicholson’s defiance, fans rose to their feet, cheering him and booing the referees. The tension in the building prompted the officials to consult with security about having the Oscar winner removed from the arena for stepping onto the court. But security advised against it, saying the move might start a riot. Instead, the officials warned Nicholson that he better not set foot on the court again.
“They can’t run me out of here,” Nicholson sneered. “They’re not going to get me out of here. I can stand here if I want to. I pay good money for my ticket.”
LeBron took it all in as Nicholson’s outburst ignited the crowd and Kobe led the Lakers on a run. It was the kind of moment that LeBron longed to star in—the best player in the NBA, competing in front of world-famous entertainers on a grand stage, the crowd going wild. It was a reminder of what LeBron had already figured out—that at its core, a professional sport was much more than a game; it was show business.
Suddenly, a producer from TNT approached LeBron. Courtside reporter Craig Sager wanted to interview him.
LeBron obliged. Stepping into the glow of the white light and facing the camera, LeBron felt the eyes of Lakers fans settling on him.
“With me, perhaps the most highly acclaimed player to ever participate in high school basketball,” Sager said. “LeBron James, first of all con- gratulations on an outstanding career and a national championship. How difficult was it to handle all the attention and publicity?”
“I think for any normal person it would be pretty hard,” LeBron said. “You know, from growing up and having so much adversity in my life, I think it was pretty easy. And with a couple of my teammates and coaches, it made it a lot
easier.”
You’ll be in the draft. But you don’t know who you’ll be playing for.
Who would you like to play for?”
“Man, this is my long-term goal. I’ll play for anybody.”
Back in Akron, St. V students and teachers who were watching the game couldn’t get over the fact that LeBron was on live television in Los Angeles. That afternoon, he’d been at school. In a post-9/11 world, it wasn’t possible to get from Akron to Los Angeles that fast on commercial flights.
But LeBron was already accustomed to the kind of high-speed travel normally reserved for corporate titans. He’d also become pretty deft at doing live interviews.
“Why are you here tonight?” Sager asked LeBron.
It was a loaded question, one that required LeBron to parse his words. “I’m here to watch Kobe and Shaq,” he said. “Shaq came to my game two years ago and I’m here to watch them try to get a victory.”
Everything LeBron said was true. Yet he had cleverly avoided any mention of Adidas as the impetus for his trip to LA and his presence at the game.
Staring at his television, Sonny Vaccaro nodded. Smart kid, he thought. As LeBron returned to his seat, Kobe drove the lane and put up an acrobatic shot. But TNT announcers Mike Fratello and Marv Albert were focused on LeBron.
“That young man, Marv, that Craig just talked to,” Fratello said, “really has handled himself extremely well under the pressures this year that he was put under.”
LeBron awoke to bright sunshine, warm air, and a view of the water. Sonny had put him and Gloria up in a beachfront hotel in Santa Monica. LeBron recognized that Sonny always went out of his way to treat Gloria like a VIP. LeBron was also aware that Sonny had publicly defended Gloria when journalists had portrayed her as money hungry.
Most of the stories that had been critical of Gloria were written by journalists who had no firsthand experience with poverty. These sportswriters were predominantly white men with no reference point for what it was like to raise a child on your own as a sixteen-year-old Black girl. Sonny didn’t know what that was like, either. But he’d gotten to know Gloria well enough to see a side of her that the media overlooked. “She could’ve taken hundreds of thousands from various people,” Sonny told the Akron Beacon Journal in the spring of 2003. “There’s nobody from the agents to the financial managers to would-be investors that would not have fronted them whatever they wanted or needed. Gloria didn’t ask for or take anything.”
The best chance that Adidas had in landing LeBron rested in the relationship Sonny had established with him and Gloria.
Around noon, LeBron and Gloria got into a limo that delivered them to an opulent mansion in Malibu. It belonged to a mover and shaker in the music industry. Sonny had rented the place for the weekend. And he had it staged for the occasion. Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea” played in the background when Sonny opened the door and greeted LeBron and Gloria
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