A week has passed, the cheers bursting out across Southern California in little geysers of joy, an exclamation in the grocery store line, a fist-bump at the coffee shop, an amazed toast from the corner of the bar.
LeBron James is really going to be a Laker. He’s really coming here. There are hastily stitched “23’’ T-shirts hanging in sporting goods stores. There is a mural at Baby Blues BBQ in Venice featuring a drawing of James in a Lakers jersey reading, “The King of LA.” It’s absolutely not a dream.
If James is indeed going to be the King of L.