On a summer night in 2010, all eyes were on a Boys and Girls Club in Connecticut.
The gym there was filled with TV cameras. Studio lights aimed their glare on two chairs in the center of the room.
On one chair sat veteran sports reporter Jim Gray. On the other sat LeBron James.
James was a transcendent talent. Dubbed “The Chosen One” on a Sports Illustrated cover as a high school junior, he had made the leap to the National Basketball Association as a teenager. And he had become the face of basketball before he could even legally drink alcohol.
By the time he set foot in that Boys and Girls Club, James had already claimed a league scoring title, been named an All Star six times, and won two Most Valuable Player awards. Pundits were starting to compare him to Michael Jordan — who was widely considered the best basketball player of all time.
But Jordan had something James did not. Championship rings.
Jordan had been to the NBA Finals six times in his career. His Chicago Bulls had hoisted the championship trophy after each appearance, and Jordan had claimed Finals Most Valuable Player.
James had only been to the championship series once. And his Cleveland Cavaliers failed to win a single Finals game.
Now, LeBron James was a free agent, with the option to sign a lucrative contract wherever he pleased. Would he stay loyal to Cleveland? Or would he set off for greener pastures?
That’s what this TV special — dubbed The Decision — was about. After much speculation, James would finally spill the beans.
Sporting a lavender and white dress shirt, James turned to the TV cameras and announced his intent.
In the fall, I’m going to take my talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat.
And with those words, the sporting landscape changed.
For not only was James heading to Miami, but he had left some money on the table to do so. By signing a contract below the market rate, James enabled the Heat to sign even more top-end talent.
Miami used that money to lure another star player from the Toronto Raptors, and to re-sign their best player. Their roster was now loaded.
With great fanfare, James had coordinated the launch of a superteam.
Days after The Decision, the Miami Heat hosted a buzzy event at their arena to introduce their new signees. James took the mic and told attendees that the Heat would win Not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six championships. The crowd roared.
The implication was clear. James had moved to Miami for one reason — to clear the last hurdle between him and Michael Jordan. If he could win the next seven championships, he’d be considered the greatest ever. That was all he was chasing.
Perhaps the man nicknamed King James thought his moves that summer would be enough. The hard part was over, the titles and accolades would come rolling in, and he’d be revered in all corners.
That’s not what happened.
Back in Ohio, fans revolted at his betrayal. Many burned their Cavaliers jerseys with James’ name on it, and videos of the infernos appeared on the internet. When the Heat traveled to Cleveland, the response was so hostile that the arena needed extra security.
And many NBA fans — and longtime Michael Jordan fans — actively rooted against James, hoping his perceived shortcut to accolades would fail.
The doubters got their wish the following summer. The Heat did make the NBA Finals, but they lost to the Dallas Mavericks. James was thoroughly outplayed by Dallas’ Dirk Nowitzki in that series, and he faced intense ridicule afterward.
It appeared that The Decision had backfired bigtime.
As I write this, I’ve been a professional for the better part of 12 years.
I don’t play basketball, and I don’t find myself in front of the cameras. But I’ve worked in multiple industries for various employers.
These companies have all had homegrown talent. They’ve hired unproven commodities like me and let us grow into our roles. They’ve often promoted from within, giving new responsibilities to those already familiar with their operations and culture.
But every now and then, I’ve caught wind of a splashy hire or two. Someone with a star-studded resume, newly arrived from a big-name company.
I welcome these developments. But not unconditionally.
For I remember the story of LeBron James and the Miami Heat. I know that assembling a superteam, Avengers style, doesn’t always guarantee success.
Indeed, recent corporate history is littered with missteps like these. JC Penney, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Twitter — among others — have recently faltered under the watch of ballyhooed executives.
I don’t rejoice in such carnage. But I am aware of what it represents. And I hope that those within my orbit are as well.
You see, the mixed returns of the Talent Load strategy represent more than luck. They demonstrate the folly of a prevalent myth.
Talent is not finite. It’s not zero sum. And it is far from guaranteed.
Indeed, talent is more like the yeast starter for a loaf of bread. When it’s given time to cultivate and mesh with its surrounding environment, it can grow into something special. But it needs that time and space to thrive.
This is a self-evident truth. But it’s an inconvenient one for our modern world — where the demand for instant results is high.
So, we keep going to the well. We rely on the abilities of a proven few. And, in doing so, we ignore the potential of many others.
That does no one any good.
There’s an old episode of Family Guy where the show’s protagonist — Peter Griffin — buys volcano insurance from a traveling salesman.
The whole thing was a gag. It was proof Griffin was so dim-witted that he’d throw his money at just about anything.
But the bit only works because of some common knowledge. Namely, that there is insurance coverage for just about anything.
One of those just about anything coverages is called Key Man Insurance. It’s meant to protect a company financially if one of its core employees is incapacitated.
In a sense, this coverage seems prudent. If top talent is taken out, a business might lose its edge — financially and otherwise. Insurance protection could be a worthy hedge against that risk.
But this line of thought can corrode an entire organization. It can give top executives a God complex, inflating their sense of self-importance. And it can create a de facto glass ceiling for everyone in the organization with a lower title.
Whether these employees are mid-level managers or entry level associates, they seemingly don’t matter. They’re the worker bees. The talent is upstairs, out of reach.
This might not be entirely true, of course. But actions can feed perceptions. And every move to quickly assemble a superteam and encase it in Key Man Insurance protection — well, it tells a story.
It’s a bleak narrative. But not an inevitable one.
Indeed, corporate leaders can flip the script. They can view their workforce as diamonds in the rough, rather than cogs in a wheel. They can commit to development and build a pipeline to the top.
And those in that workforce can showcase their potential. They can advocate for themselves, lead by example, and shine radiantly when the lights are brightest. Through will and determination, they can douse cold water on the myth of finite talent.
These are small changes, with minimal impact on their own. But once combined, they can turn the Talent Load fallacy on its head. They can forge a more equitable and promising future for all.
That’s what we’re all after. So, let’s go get it.