An "injury"—just bad enough to scare off teams with top picks who craved immediate help (the Cavaliers, Pistons, Nuggets)… but not so bad it would ruin his long-term career.
A "fall"—bad enough to make a wealthy team with lower picks, one willing to bet on the future (like the Celtics), salivate.
The risk was huge. One wrong move, and he could be done for good.
But LeBron's eyes lit up like a gambler's. Having lived once before, he knew the next 20 years of basketball like the back of his hand. He knew which choices worked. He had an edge no scout or GM could match—foresight.
This risk was worth it.
"Mom," he set down his fork, his voice calm but firm, "call Frank (his childhood friend and early advisor). And… I think we need to rethink all those team workout invites we had before."
Gloria stared at her son, surprised. He felt different today—his eyes held a cold resolve she'd never seen before.
Two days later, a closed-door scrimmage took place at St. Vincent-St. Mary's gym. Only a handful of NBA scouts showed up, and the air felt tense.
LeBron James—the unstoppable high school "King"—drove to the hoop like he always did. But when he landed, he suddenly grabbed his right ankle in pain and crumpled to the floor.
A small commotion broke out.
The trainer rushed over. LeBron grit his teeth, beads of sweat dotting his forehead (not all faked—he'd twisted his ankle just enough to sell it).
Word spread like wildfire through the NBA.
"LeBron James suffers bad ankle sprain in workout—draft stock at risk!"
"Experts question his durability; Cavaliers hold emergency meeting!"
"Has the Chosen One fallen?"
The Cleveland Cavaliers' front office panicked. They had the No. 1 pick, and everyone assumed they'd take their hometown hero. But this injury came at the worst time. They needed a player who could help now to save their fanbase—a high school kid with a possible "injury-prone" label was too risky.
The Detroit Pistons (No. 2 pick) and Denver Nuggets (No. 3 pick) hesitated too. They had a safer option: Carmelo Anthony, the天才 forward who'd just led Syracuse to an NCAA title—healthy and ready to play.
Only Boston's Danny Ainge sat in his office, watching LeBron's painful fall replay on TV. His fingers tapped the desk, his eyes sharp like a vulture spotting prey.
"Bad sprain?" he muttered to his assistant. "Check into this. I don't buy coincidences. But if… if he drops to 16th…"
It would be the biggest gift God ever gave the Celtics.
Draft night. Madison Square Garden, New York.
The crowd roared, but the looks LeBron got were nothing like last time. Pity, doubt, scrutiny—no more envy or certainty.
He wore a sharp white suit (a little too big, to make him look younger, more vulnerable) and sat quietly in the green room. Gloria squeezed his hand—this time, her shake was from nerves, not excitement.
David Stern walked on stage.
"With the first pick in the 2003 NBA Draft, the Cleveland Cavaliers select… Carmelo Anthony, from Syracuse University!"
The crowd gasped! Carmelo froze—even he didn't see that coming.
LeBron lowered his eyes, hiding a small smile. Step one of the plan: done.
"With the second pick, the Detroit Pistons select… Darko Milicic, from Serbia!" (The Pistons stuck to their original choice.)
"With the third pick, the Denver Nuggets select… Chris Bosh, from Georgia Tech!"
Names kept coming. ESPN's cameras kept cutting to LeBron—his face carefully set in a frown, like he was heartbroken. Commentators talked about how "that terrible injury" had flipped the draft on its head.
Finally…
"With the 16th pick in the 2003 NBA Draft, the Boston Celtics select…"
Stern paused, his gaze seeming to flick toward LeBron.
"LeBron James, from St. Vincent-St. Mary High School!"
"OHHHH!!!" The crowd screamed—louder than the applause.
Cameras locked onto LeBron. He let out a long, relieved breath, stood up, and hugged his mom tight. His face showed a mix of relief, hurt, and resolve—perfect for a kid who'd fallen hard but finally gotten a break.
He put on a Celtics cap, his step a little unsteady (he acted it perfectly), and walked on stage to shake Stern's hand.
Below, Danny Ainge smiled—a smile that said more than words.
And when LeBron turned to face the flashbulbs? All the vulnerability vanished. His eyes were cold and sharp, and a tiny, almost invisible smirk tugged at his lips.
Perfect.
Boston: a legacy of 17 championship banners. Paul Pierce—a great scorer, but… not an unshakable leader.
Step two: done.
The plane touched down at Boston's Logan Airport. LeBron stepped off the tarmac and breathed in the cold New England air. Reporters and fans swarmed him, yelling his name, holding signs that said "Welcome to Boston, LeBron!"
One reporter pushed through the crowd. "LeBron! How do you feel about dropping to 16th because of the injury—and joining the Celtics? Do you think you'll get a chance here?"
LeBron turned to the cameras, his smile warm and humble. His voice was clear, strong.
"I'm so grateful the Celtics gave me this shot. This isn't the end—it's just the start. I want to learn, I want to win, and I'll give everything for this city, for this team. And as for a chance?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone. His tone was gentle, but it held an unbreakable power.
"I know Boston wants more than just the playoffs. And I was born to win championships."
The crowd cheered louder—so loud it shook the air.
LeBron walked to the team cars, surrounded by security. Behind him, his words—"born to win championships"—aired on TV stations across America.
Far away, in a black car, Celtics' current leader Paul Pierce watched the live broadcast. He held a lit cigar halfway to his mouth, his brow furrowed.
That didn't sound like a rookie who'd come to "learn."
LeBron got in the car. The windows rolled up, blocking out the noise. His smile faded, replaced by a deep, quiet calm.
He pulled out his new Motorola phone and dialed a number.
"Hey, Frank. It's me."
"Call the Boston media—especially the ones close to the front office. It's time… to start a new story."
In the window, his young face stared back—eyes old, sharp, and full of plans.
The story was just beginning.