That time I saw 19-year-old LeBron James in Vegas
They say that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but I’ve got a story about an underage LeBron James getting denied at a Palms blackjack table that’s too good not to share.
I’ve told this story hundreds of times to acquaintances and probably dozens on times on podcast, but I’ve never committed it to blog form. With LeBron back on top of the universe and the Cavaliers homecoming parade kicking off in Sin City, now seems as good of a time as any.
It was May 2004 and I was in Vegas for a bachelor party. It was also the weekend of Roy Jones-Antonio Tarver II, which meant that plenty of NBA stars who weren’t on playoff teams had arrived in town as well.
*I’ve long since forgotten the list of everyone we saw, but I remember Paul Pierce and his crew being among the most visible. We spent the Saturday afternoon in a cabana near his, cheering on Smarty Jones in the Preakness and mourning the superfecta we almost cashed, but didn’t.
LeBron was 19 years old and coming off his first season in the NBA. He’d won the Rookie of the Year award by taking 78 of 118 first-place votes. He’d already been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, had his high school games broadcast on ESPN and been rightfully anointed as the future of the NBA.
I, meanwhile, was 25 years old and into my third year of making around $26,000 a year as a reporter for The Kansas City Star. I was splitting a $99 a night hotel room at Gold Coast with two other guys (one of which was future Shutdown Corner editor Frank Schwab) because we couldn’t afford to stay with the rest of the party at The Palms. We spent most of the trip wearing a groove into any $5 blackjack table we could find while screaming Hawk Harrelson’s “he gone!” or “grab some bench” strikeout calls at the dealer any time he or she busted.*
*I really have no acceptable explanation for this, other than it was Vegas and some things become really funny after you’ve been grinding out free Coronas at a blackjack table in the Gold Coast.
At any rate, LeBron’s presence in Vegas that weekend was mostly a rumor to us. We’d heard from other guys in the party they’d seen him by the pool. Dealers told us we’d just missed him walking toward the front entrance. Other blackjack players described their glimpse of the next great one that we desired.
Fight night came and we still hadn’t seen him. While Tarver shocked Jones and the rest of the world, our party had dinner at Delmonico’s Steakhouse Thanks to a good run at the Venetian tables, I ordered a steak that probably cost 25 percent of my weekly takehome pay from the newspaper. As we ate and drank, we talked about the guy who was in the first year of a $90 million deal with Nike and whether we’d see him.
We returned to the Palms, which was lit in the aftermath of Tarver’s big win. My friend Dan had recently taken up card counting as a hobby after reading Ben Mezrich’s book about the team from MIT. Somehow, amid the madness of that scene, he was able to stand behind me and tell me what the count was. Either The Palms didn’t notice or they had more to do on a fight night than worry about two meatheads fooling around on a $10 minimum table. Whatever the case, it was one of the best gambling runs I’ve ever hard. As my pile of chips grew, I had completely forgotten about whether or not we’d see LeBron.
The whole table was doing well, though, so it wasn’t until around 3 or 4 a.m. that someone sitting at the center of the table finally pushed back and call it a night. As I turned to look, I saw a huge hand with a bracelet that probably cost more than my apartment building throw down a huge pile of bills on the table.
I stared at the money as it hit the felt of that $10 blackjack table in the public area of The Palms. The nearest pit boss swooped in before I could look at who was entering our game.
“Mr. James,” the pit boss said in a polite but firm manner. “We’ve already told you that you’re too young to gamble in our casino. Once you turn 21 years old, we will be more than pleased to accommodate you.”
It was LeBron and he was standing two seats to my left. He nodded, quickly picked up his pile of bills and left. He’d been rejected more quickly and efficiently than the iconic block he’d deliver to Andre Iguodala 12 years later.
While the rest of the table sat with jaws dropped — did that really just happen? — I sprung into action. I had a blocky digital camera in my pocket. If LeBron was really going to fulfill his generational promise, I wasn’t going to pass up getting a photo with him on the brink of his greatness.
“Hey LeBron, mind if I get a photo with you?” I said.
Looking back, it was a really dumb request. It was late. We were in a casino. LeBron had just been slightly embarrassed trying to sneak in and get some action at a low-minimum blackjack table. if I had been slightly less inebriated and a few years older, I would have left him alone.
And LeBron, for his part, would have been well within his rights to tell some random drunk idiot “no.” Hell, he could’ve (and probably should’ve) just ignored me and kept walking away.
But he didn’t. He told the two guys he was with to hold up and turned around.
The photo turned out looking as awkward as my search for someone nearby to take the picture. I look like a guy who hadn’t slept for a few days and was spending most of his free time back home eating Kansas City barbecue and drinking Boulevard Wheat (both true).
LeBron? Well, he looks like he’d rather be playing a $10 hand of blackjack.
It’s kind of crazy to think there was ever a time in LeBron’s NBA career that 1) he could think he could play blackjack at a public table undetected or 2) that there wouldn’t be a mob scene and some random guy could ask for a picture without the rest of the casino wanting one too. There are times where I wouldn’t have believed the story myself if I didn’t have that picture to prove that it did.
But it did happen. Twelve years, three titles and four MVPs later, it remains my “Vegas story” that I doubt I’ll ever be able to top.
