Stan Hochman: LeBron James' ad is a turnoff in 29 ways

ON THE DAY after he whipped Sonny Liston in Miami, Cassius Clay told a gaggle of white sports writers that he was joining the Nation of Islam and changing his name. They grumbled and told him he was demeaning the heavyweight championship of the world. He looked 'em in the eye and said, "I don't have to be what you want me to be!"

That's a statement! It took faith, it took courage, it took boldness to say it. I don't have to be what you want me to be!

And now, 46 years later, we have LeBron James in that pathetic, contrived, bullspit Nike spot, asking 29 pitiful questions, including, "Should I be what you want me to be?"

Nike's targeted demographic does not include anybody over 40, so they're not worried about somebody recognizing the line and getting angry about them ripping off Muhammad Ali's memory.

Charles Barkley, that's a horse of a different appetite. James whimpers, "Shall I tell you I'm not a role model?" And then, moments later he takes a bite out of a huge doughnut with pink icing and sprinkles and says, "Hi, Chuck" and winks. That's supposed to be a cute way of saying that everything is cool between 'em, but the fact remains that Barkley said it, "I am not a role model!"

A statement, not a question. A dumb, ill-considered statement, not the first one Chaz ever made, not the last one, either.

Charles was trying to make a point about parenting and guiding kids toward wholesome, truly inspirational role models. Somehow, it got lost in the crossfire that followed about big-time athletes being role models, like it or not. We've all been over that road so often, we can drive it blindfolded.

Back to James and his 29-question melodrama, designed to win back sneaker customers turned away by "The Decision," that 3-hour television charade that ended the free-agency mystery.

It's not really 29 different questions. He asks the "what you want me to be?" query twice and "What should I do?" five times, so it's really only 24, and the television charade did not last 3 hours, it only seemed that long.

"I'm taking my talents to South Beach," King James pronounced, 6 minutes into that dreary show. That's what royalty does, make pronouncements. "Let 'em eat cake," comes to mind when someone told Marie Antoinette the starving peasants had no bread.

Some of James' questions are serious, some of them frivolous, and the bit with Don Johnson is a highlight. LeBron in a flamingo pink suit, with a pink pocket hanky, wondering aloud whether he oughta be taking notes.

I answered 23 of the 24 questions thoughtfully. What do I want him to do? I want him to play hard all the time, harder than he played in Game 5 of the playoffs last year against Boston when he played like a pussycat.

When he asks, "Should I stop listening to my friends?" he quickly follows by saying, "They're my friends."

If his friends organized "The Decision," he needs new, smarter friends. They already got their 15 minutes of fame when Buzz Bissinger wrote a book called "Shooting Stars" about LeBron and his boyhood buddies.

It's out in paperback now with a name change to "LeBron's Dream Team." The hardback would have sold more copies if Buzz had called it "Tuesday Night Lights," but it's too late now.

And it's too late to take that target off LeBron's back after he conspired, along with Chris Bosh to join Dwyane Wade in South Beach, a k a as the Miami Heat.

I watch the brutal spin-doctoring commercial one more time, admiring the camera angles, the costumes, the trickeration, hating them, baffled by the key guy.

And then I chuckle, thinking of the fun a young Ali would have had with the abuse King James is taking for abandoning Cleveland the way he did, for his willingness to play in Wade's shadow.

"All that bling, so they call you King," Ali would have rhymed. "More like Prince, but that would make me wince. Maybe Duke, but I'd still wanna puke. They can't call you King, 'cause you ain't got no ring."

James isn't all bad. He has superstar talent, a magnificent body, plenty of charisma, some acting skills. This season, we will find out how much heart he has inside that ink-stained chest. *

Send e-mail to stanrhoch@comcast.net.