There's a slow, predictable drain to American fame, and Lebron James has found himself at the nadir of such a journey. It goes a little like this...

1. Cute, feel good story that reels you in like the blinking lights that say "free lunch buffet" under the neon dancing girl at the locale gentleman's club

2. Cute, feel good story turns wild success, where you hear things like "I really am glad they made it." This is where a small faction of us that begins to tire of the feel good story just because we look at our unattractive wives and miserable jobs and think "no, I can't get behind this happiness/fullfilling expectations crap."

3. Cute, feel good story becomes feverishly hated celebrity, where things like "dude, I'm sooo tired of this guy or that team and I turn on the TV just to watch them fail and do shots of Bacardi 151 to their every blow up."

This is American fame. It's American sport. In 2001, everyone loved the Patriots and their gruff coach. Now? No team gets more ratings, mostly because people would rather watch them lose than see their own team win. For some, it's quicker. In one year, the Fab Five went from a pop culture cult to a group of miscast pariahs and the signal of the end of sport...and if you wanna go all Jim Nantz "missing putts is the end of the world" serious...society.

And here is Lebron James, not so far removed from the loveable high school kid from a Catholic high school with the million dollar smile and the "GOAT" game to match. Along the way, James made it hard to hate him. Yeah, I have a few stories of him trying to get Indianapolis gold diggers to make his black snake moan, but he's a dude with multiple children by the same woman whom he's married to. He's rarely standoffish with the press. He's hounded the likes of which no athletic celebrity...or maybe celebrity at all...has seen in recent memory in the US.

But James is now at the crossroads. One day after an epic flameout in a game 5 that meant that Boston still would need to win one more game to knock out James' Cavs, he's the most villified figure in sport. For the moment. Afterall, he didn't assault (Big Ben), kill dogs (Mike Vick) or treat anything with a box like a Ferris Wheel behind his wife's back (Eldrick Woods). He shot 3 of 14. And suddenly, the cute kid from Ohio is hated by everyone. He's a choker. He's arrogant. Overrated. A letdown.

Regardless of what happens tomorrow, Lebron needs to stay in Cleveland. Sports has its untouchable idols, especially basketball. They all share one common denominator. That being that they were one city icons. Jordan. Bird. Magic. They need no full name introductions. Lebron could be that guy. But not if he bolts to New York or Jersey, more franchises with track marks on their arms thinking they can only get clean in the summer of Lebron. Cleveland can offer more money. But that's not the point. James' fame will take yet another hit in what is becomming a grossly twisted downward spiral. He'll be a traitor, in no small part because of his self depricating "loyalty" speeches upon receiving both MVP awards in Akron.

Think of it like a marriage, Lebron. No Daddy's Little Princess grows up saying "what I dream about at night in the recesses of my own mind is to grow up, get married at least twice, and somehow find my way into the most incentive laden relationship I can get my hands on." No. They fashion dreams of one husband and a happily ever after ending. For Lebron, Cleveland is that one spouse. To leave means he will never, ever achieve the untouchable icon status of the game's Mount Rushmore. He'll forever be known as a guy who, success or not, chased the fame instead of creating it and owning it all by his lonesome.

Make no mistake, my pals. If James wins the next two games, all of yesterday's fodder and happenstance dressing him down will be changed to adoration and instant Hall of Fame status. He will again go back to being basketball's prodigal son. That's how fame in America works. You're only as worthwhile as the last performace you gave. Right or wrong. It knows no age, no verbal law, or no boundaries.

Somewhere, there's a little girl, sitting in a corner in her late 20s with eye shadow slowly cascading down her cheeks like ice cream melting through a cone. She just found some girl's number in her hubby's sock drawer. She'll have to tell the kids at some point, when Daddy and Mommy stop talking and bags start getting packed with no actual vacation on the horizon. She thinks back to that day in her mid teens at a slumber party with her pals, eating candy and stealing Mom's wine coolers, joking about marrying football players and living the American dream with two kids and a nice house for the next 50 years. Cleveland doesn't deserve to be that girl, and Lebron doesn't look like he's that kinda guy.

But the reality is, for every moment where sports makes us believe, we work overtime to tear it down. Lebron might not be the King...for the moment, but don't worry Cavs fans...regardless of the fabricated ESPN suspense, he'll be a good hubby. The question is, will there ever be a point when we will just sit back and enjoy it? Or are we just waiting for the next 60 mintues to tear something new down just to make ourselves feel better?