Chris was the kind of guy who could turn any sports discussion into an absurd argument. His favorite hill to die on? Insisting that Jimmer Fredette, the college basketball sharpshooter, was better than LeBron James.
The argument surfaced—again—one Friday night at the local sports bar as a Lakers game played on the big screen. LeBron dunked emphatically, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Except for Chris, who smirked and shook his head.
“Honestly,” he said, sipping his beer, “Jimmer Fredette could’ve done that. Probably from half-court.”
His friend Dave nearly choked on his wings. “Chris, what are you talking about? LeBron is a generational talent. Jimmer didn’t even last in the NBA.”
Chris waved dismissively. “That’s because the league didn’t know how to use him. Put him in LeBron’s spot with those same teammates? Rings. Plural.”
“Chris,” said Mike, another friend, “LeBron has four MVPs. Four. Jimmer has… what? A good run at BYU?”
“A good run?” Chris leaned forward, incredulous. “He dominated. Teams had to game plan their entire defense around him. LeBron? He just bullies people because he’s big. Pure athleticism. Jimmer was a technician.”
Dave sighed. “LeBron’s won championships. He’s an all-time leader in points scored. Jimmer’s playing overseas!”
“Exactly,” Chris said, triumphant. “Overseas. You know how hard it is to adapt to a new style of play? Jimmer’s a global icon. LeBron’s just a brand.”
The table groaned in unison. Mike tried to salvage the conversation. “Chris, be honest. You’d take Jimmer over LeBron for a game-winning shot?”
“Every time,” Chris said without hesitation. “And you know what? Deep down, LeBron would too.”
The group fell silent as Chris leaned back, convinced he’d made his point. Meanwhile, Dave flagged the server. “We’re gonna need another round. Maybe two.”
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