One night in the 21st century, the Los Angeles arena buzzed with noise—but the air hummed with mixed feelings. LeBron James, basketball's most controversial superstar, was at his retirement ceremony. The spotlight shone on his still-strong frame, now tinged with weariness. Courtside sat countless celebrities, former teammates, and rivals.
A career highlight reel played on the big screen. Every dunk, every chase-down block, every clutch assist drew roars. But when the screen faded to black, and the emcee boomed about his "unprecedented legendary career" and "undisputed second-greatest of all time," faint but clear boos prickled from every corner of the stands—mixed with a few ill-timed laughs.
"Who's your daddy?"
"Win a real ring!"
"Go the fk home!"
Jabs flew from all directions.
LeBron stood center court, a polite smile fixed on his face, but his nails dug deep into his palms. Forty years in the game, four championships, all-time scoring leader… Countless honors now dimmed next to that label: "second-greatest." Headlines flashed through his mind: "Forever the Runner-Up GOAT," "The Original Superteam Chaser," "Stats Padder," "Clutch Coward…" Even his final seasons—playing on to share the court with his son—were mocked as "the longest goodbye tour ever."
He tried to push down the chaos in his chest with his speech, but his voice sounded distant, even to himself. "…Thank you to my family, thank you to the fans, thank you to every teammate I fought with…"
Before he finished, a sharp yell cut through the noise: "Nobody respects you, LeBron! Fraud!"
The arena went dead silent—then erupted into louder chaos. LeBron's smile froze. He saw former teammates look away, some even hiding smirks behind their hands. Shame and rage burned in his gut like magma. He finished his speech, waved mechanically, and walked off the court.
More mixed looks greeted him. A reporter he'd known for years patted his shoulder, but his tone held pity: "Don't take it to heart, LeBron. Time will tell."
Tell what? LeBron roared inside. That I walked a path everyone looks down on?
Back in the empty locker room, a giant poster stared back—his younger self, bright-eyed and sharp, as if questioning the old soul trapped in his body now. He closed his eyes, tired, and that yell echoed again: "Nobody respects you."
If only I could do it over… If only I could go back…
...
A blaring alarm jolted LeBron awake.
He sat up fast, a searing headache splitting his skull—like someone had driven an ice pick through his temples. He grabbed his head, and his blurry vision slowly cleared.
Something was wrong.
This wasn't his bedroom in his Brentwood mansion. The room was small. Old posters covered the walls: Jordan soaring for a dunk, Deion Sanders sprinting with the ball. The air smelled like old carpet and sweat. Outside, he heard the familiar buzz of the Akron neighborhood.
His heart dropped.
He glanced at his desk. A few Sports Illustrated issues lay scattered there—and on the cover? Him, playing for St. Vincent-St. Mary High School. The headline screamed: "THE KING HAS ARRIVED!" Next to it sat a bulky old computer monitor. The date glowed in the corner—May 26, 2003.
LeBron scrambled to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, then looked up at the mirror.
A young, smooth, wrinkle-free face stared back. His eyes held confusion—and a spark of energy he hadn't felt in decades. Only a faint stubble dotted his chin, not his signature beard. His muscles were tight, packed with the raw power of an 18-year-old—no trace of the wear from two decades in the NBA.
This wasn't a dream.
The headache wasn't from age. It was… the aftershock of time travel?
"LeBron! Hurry up! You'll be late for practice!" A familiar, long-forgotten voice called from outside—his mom, Gloria James. Bright, no hint of the exhaustion life would later pile on her.
LeBron took a deep breath. The cold air burned his lungs, realer than anything. He squeezed his arm hard—pain flared, sharp and clear.
He was back.
Truly back, on the night before the 2003 NBA Draft—his starting line.
Joy crashed over him like a wave. But in the next second, memories flooded in: losses, doubt, mockery—cold water dousing his excitement. The shame of that retirement night cut deeper than any Finals loss.
He gripped the sink hard, his knuckles white.
Last time, he'd carried loyalty to his hometown and dreams of being a hero. He'd gone to the Cavaliers as the No. 1 pick, starting a long, bumpy journey. He'd won stats, won awards—but never the "respect" that slipped away when people compared him to Michael Jordan.
This time…
The confusion and joy faded from the young face in the mirror. Something cold and unshakable took its place: resolve.
This time, everything would be different.
He wanted the honors, wanted the championships—but he was done with that label he'd carried for 20 years: "Great, but not a god." He would smash it to pieces. He wanted the one thing that would shut everyone up: undisputed, unchallenged, true GOAT status.
Every regret would be fixed. Every stain on his name would be wiped clean.
And this time, it wouldn't be about loyalty or waiting. It would be about… total control. Precision.
"LeBron!" Gloria called again.
"Coming, Mom!" He answered. His voice sounded young—unfamiliar, but steady.
He walked out of the bathroom, glanced at that Sports Illustrated on his desk, and a cold smirk tugged at his lips.
Chosen one? No. This time, he was the God himself.
At the breakfast table, Gloria studied him, worried. "You okay, baby? You look pale."
"Never better, Mom." LeBron bit into his toast, his mind racing. "Just… figured some things out."
He thought back to his last life. Reebok's $100 million check—with a $10 million signing bonus—had almost made him dizzy. But later, his Nike deal had brought far more.
But this time, money wasn't enough. He wanted more.
"About the draft?" Gloria asked.
LeBron nodded, his eyes sharp. "About the future."
Last time, he'd carried Cleveland's hopes like a savior—only to be crushed by the weight. The Cavs front office hadn't built a real contender around him early on. It took him seven years just to reach the Finals—then the Spurs swept him.
He still remembered that feeling: Popovich and Tim Duncan seeing right through him, leaving him powerless.
He wouldn't waste his youth on a team that had to start from zero. He needed ready-made talent. A proven system. A shortcut to a title—but not the kind that got him hated last time. Not "The Decision," not "running to Wade" in Miami.
He needed to be invited—as the clear, unshakable core.
And in 2003, that team existed.
His fingers tapped the table, unconsciously. The San Antonio Spurs? They had Duncan, they had Pop—but their culture was too quiet, too low-key for his future business empire. The Los Angeles Lakers? The OK Duo was at their peak. Kobe's shadow was too big, and Shaq still dominated…
His thoughts stopped on another team: the Boston Celtics.
Memories surfaced: The Celtics had wanted to rebuild that summer. They had tons of draft picks, and a GM with fire in his belly—Danny Ainge. They'd eventually built the Big Three in 2007: Garnett, Ray Allen, Pierce…
But what if… what if they got "The Chosen One" LeBron James four years earlier?
A bold, even crazy idea took root in his head.
The Celtics had the 16th and 20th picks in the first round. For him—locked as the No. 1 pick—it sounded impossible.
But…
What if he "got hurt"?