As a big NBA fan, I was fascinated by this year’s free agency dealings. I made sure we got home by 9:00 last Thursday, after worship team practice, so I could watch The Decision, when LeBron James announced where he was going.

First, it was way too much hype. I wish he’d done it a different way. But that’s just a process issue. The result is that the best players on three different teams will now play together on the Miami Heat.

LeBron is taking a lot of criticism. One criticism is that a Real Superstar would have stayed in Cleveland and won a championship on his own. He would have wanted to compete head-to-head with D-Wade and Chris Bosh, rather than team up with them.

But my mind goes back to the 2008 Olympics. As I watched James then, I remember thinking that he seemed to truly be having fun. He didn’t need to carry the team. He just had to do his part. In the pre- and post-game interviews, he seemed energized being part of a collective purpose.

I sort of see that now. He’ll be part of a team, not THE team, the perpetual go-to guy, the one who gets the blame if the team falls short. He’s been playing that role all his life, including, from what I’ve heard, carrying his family on his shoulders while growing up.

I suspect that the Olympics opened his eyes to something he enjoyed far more than being Top Dog. He was part of a team. He belonged. He was appreciated for what he brought to the mix. He could sit on the bench and wildly cheer his teammates. Nobody depended on him alone. It was a whole different type of exhilaration.

Yes, he could have proven a macho point by winning a championship in Cleveland. But was he having fun? I don’t think so.

Some personalities are suited to being the supreme leader. Michael Jordan was certainly that way. So is Kobe.

I’m not sure that comes naturally to James. By joining an all-star roster, he may give up the chance to be the Greatest of All Time. But does that motivate him? I suspect not. I think he’d rather have fun. And in Miami, with Wade and Bosh, James will have fun. And so will I, watching them play.

Few things are more exciting than watching several hours of soccer during which NOBODY SCORES.

Actually, more than a few things are this exciting. In fact, every conceivable human activity is more exciting. Boiling water is infinitely more exciting, because you at least know the water WILL eventually boil.

It drives me nuts to see a score from the World Cup where two teams hammered at each other, and the final score was 0-0.

Last night, I watched Paraguay vs. Japan. After either 110 or 120 minutes (I can’t remember which it was, which demonstrated my degree of rivetment), they had to do something else to determine a winner, because this could go on forever.

When this situation arises in soccer, here’s what they do to get a winner: they stop playing soccer. It would be like resolving a tied basketball game by playing H-O-R-S-E. The soccer players could do rock-paper-scissors, or arm-wrestle, or see who can kick a soccer ball the farthest. Instead, they have a shoot-out

The shootout is insidiously designed to humiliate goalies.

Yes, the goalies have played flawlessly up to this point. Their teammates are the ones falling short, just kicking the ball around rather than actually scoring, as their job description demands. But rather than reward the goalies, they are made to look silly in front of millions of people.

An opposing team member is given a free kick ridiculously close to the goal. Like moving the pitching mound forward 15 feet. All the goalie can do is take a wild guess about where the guy will kick the ball. What usually happens is the goalie dives right, and the ball goes left into the net. Or vice versa. Regardless, the goalie looks silly.

The shoot-out, at least, has some drama to it, as opposed to two hours of kicking the ball around and comically faking serious injuries.

I really WANT to be excited about soccer. But it’s SO HARD.

Ron is one of the better players in the Fort Wayne table tennis club. He also manages a golf course.

Tonight I said to him: “I imagine you’ve heard every opinion possible about Tiger Woods.”

He smiled. Yes he had. Then he said, “Here’s my opinion, if anyone’s interested. One: You don’t really know a person’s character, deep down, until they are tested–until they have opportunity. Two: I hope I never have opportunity.”

That’s a humble, “there but by the grace of God go I” kind of attitude. A good attitude to have.

When I saw the report this morning about Sven Kramer, the Dutch speedskater who was skating to a sure gold medal when his coach messed up and got him disqualified–well, it’s a heart-breaking story. My sympathies immediately went out to the coach, who felt terrible for messing up.

Mika, on Morning Joe, felt the same way. And on CNN, when they showed the report, the host felt bad for the coach.

But as I drove to work this morning, I thought about that. Why was I instinctively drawn to the coach? Why wasn’t my first reaction to feel bad for Sven Kramer?

After all, Kramer’s the one who trained brutally hard for years and years, probably since he was a young kid. He’s the one who sacrificed and punished his body in pursuit of a dream. He’s the one who skated those 25 laps in Olympic record time. He’s the one who would have received the Gold medal and gone into the history books. He’s the one on whom the hopes of his country rested. He’s the guy six million skating-obsessed Dutch viewers were watching. He’s the one who truly lost something.

But my first thought was to feel bad for the coach. Why? Here’s what I concluded.

I can’t relate to Sven Kramer, an elite, world-class athlete. He exists in a different universe.

But I can relate to a poor dumb schmuck who screws up. That’s where I live, the land of the ne’er-do-well, of the guy who squanders his chance, who gets confused under pressure, who blows it for everyone else, who makes a mistake which can never be redeemed. The coach–he’s my kind of people.

Last night I watched the USA men’s Curling team lose, in overtime, to the Swiss. It was a thrilling match which demonstrated the human spirit at its finest. Rarely have I been so proud to be an American.

Our finely tuned Curling athletes pushed themselves to the limit, extracting every last ounce of energy from their chiseled physiques, the determination showing on their faces as they dug deep within themselves for that last boost of adrenaline, dripping sweat betraying their exhaustion, drawing on untold years of crushing endurance training which would vanquish lesser men. But alas, it was not to be. Not this day.

Now let’s give them all wedgies.