The most remarkable thing about LeBron James is that he’s still recognizably himself. Even if he’s not the best basketball player ever, he’s certainly the best 40-year-old basketball player ever. Forty-seven games into his 22nd season, James can do just about everything that can be done on the basketball court. He switches hands mid-air to throw down sidewinding dunks over guys who are younger than his NBA career; he’s added a running, one-legged pull-up three to his repertoire.
And yet, James seems inessential, somewhat removed from the larger narratives that have defined this season. In an effort to preserve his middle-aged body, James has downshifted into a quieter version of himself—he’s playing well enough to not provoke real concern, but not quite well enough to truly matter. When the league’s 10th best player is leading the 10th best team, there’s not much to yell about.
Like his agent-in-law, James is firmly in the Vegas residency portion of his career, content to play his old hits, but not creating new ones. Averaging 24.0 points (on 59.8 percent True Shooting), 7.6 rebounds and 9.1 assists per game, James has seen his all-time greatness reduced to a more ordinary level of stardom. At this point in his career, James has less in common with Nikola Jokic than he does, say, Trae Young or Pascal Siakam or any of the other guys who are steering pretty solid teams to pretty decent records. It’s a small distinction, but an important one—the difference between All-NBA and All-Star, between playoff and play-in.
Whereas James once represented an impossible problem for defenses to try to solve, he’s now the one looking for answers. At his best, James made every game plan look like a mistake. This was always what made him unique. If Kobe Bryant and Michael Jordan pulled from a wellspring of skill that was so deep that it made their opponents seem inferior, James made his seem stupid. In turn, he engendered such destabilizing doubt in his rivals that it left him practically peerless. The Raptors, Pacers and Hawks broke apart would-be contenders because James broke their spirit. The Warriors signed Kevin Durant because of their quavering belief that they could beat James on even ground.
Now, though, James is the counterpuncher. Since he’s in middle-age, teams can pull from a broader menu of defensive coverages to stymie him. When he catches the ball on the wing, help defenders don’t have to flood the strongside like blood platelets rushing to scab over a wound; when he comes off a ball-screen, big men can switch onto him, increasingly confident that they can match his tempo.
This year, James is less rapacious and more opportunistic—he takes what he can, not what he pleases. He isolates on a career-low 3.1 possessions per game and drives less frequently than ever before, settling for floaters instead of persisting for dunks. Tellingly, his share of short mid-range attempts has spiked while his free-throw rate has dropped below league-average, evidence of his growing struggles to put defenders in compromising positions.
But at his most diminished, James is also at his most interesting. After 20 years of peerless basketball multitasking, his bandwidth is more limited. From game to game, he continuously reinvents himself, revealing the strategies and priorities that were previously obscured—he’s capable of being a devastating playmaker and scorer, just not necessarily at the same time.
As such, he’s more transparent than ever: you can tell when he cares and what he cares about. His usage rate spikes from 24.7 percent in the first quarter to 32.1 percent in the fourth—and then up to 34 percent in “clutch time” (score within five points with less than five minutes remaining). According to Basketball Index, he’s spending the most quality time with the ball since 2021 (50 percent on-ball action share) while playing the most relaxed defense of his career, serving as the primary defender just 36 percent of the time.
On the whole, this has made James a productive player, but not necessarily a positive one—the Lakers, miraculously, are nearly 10 points per 100 possessions better without James on the floor. To wit, James has especially struggled to hold down the fort on his own, posting a -13.8 net rating in his minutes without Austin Reaves and Anthony Davis.
Still, the basic fact that James, grim on/off splits and all, continues to be a no-doubt All-Star has injected urgency into an otherwise forgettable Lakers' season. At 28-19, the Lakers are caught between pragmatism and hope, torn between optimizing their new, Luka Doncic-led future and maximizing their current, James-led present.
For the first time, James has had to make peace with being at the mercy of others. On the court, he can’t transform a lopsided outfit into a contender through the sheer force of his panacean brilliance; off the court, he’s no longer allowed to puppeteer trades and roster moves from his wine cellar command center.
In his dotage, it’s become easier than ever to appreciate James. Without the athleticism that made him legendary, he’s forced to lean on the genius playmaking and underrated ball skills that have always made him good. This is what aging gracefully looks like—not the stubbornness of Kobe Bryant, or the haunted-by-the-past Michael Jordan Wizard era. Even if the greatness of yesterday is gone, it doesn't mean that today and tomorrow will be bad. These are the good old days.