Everything in LeBron’s world seems to happen with comical exaggeration. He’s obsessed with legacy, which is part of the reason he blew up at his teammate JR Smith for carelessly blowing game one of the finals this year. He called his firstborn LeBron, and gave his second son the middle name, Maximus, taken from Russell Crowe’s Gladiator. James has a line from the film inscribed on the underside of his arms: What we do in life echoes in eternity.

In 2002, when James was finishing high school, Sports Illustrated put him on the cover of the magazine with the title “The Chosen One”. He was, they say, the best high school player. And it’s likely that history will remember him, with Michael Jordan, as the greatest basketball player that ever lived. Like Jordan, he is becoming both man and myth – they are products of marketing as well as their own sporting genius.

Off the court, LeBron is not easy to understand. He’s one of those stars who will do you the courtesy of saying that he “dreamed” of playing in the NBA, like you did, and then show you the “Chosen 1” tattoo on his back. He sells a dueling narrative about hard work – about something from nothing – and the old American manifest destiny. He was meant to play basketball, but he made it happen.

He plays this game on social media too, posting himself in heavy workouts, hours after games have finished – telling people how and why he is the best. Striving for greatness, he keeps telling us. “Greatness”, the word and the idea, is an unshakeable American habit. It’s no coincidence that Trump won the presidency wearing the word on his baseball cap. It’s a hook in the American heart that won’t let go, and where it can’t find a home in political rhetoric it can always find one in sport.

James’ greatness is also exhausting, and monotone. Walter Payton, a great Chicago running back known as “Sweetness”, said, “When you are good at something, you tell other people. When you are great at something, they tell you.” LeBron tells himself, and no one can disagree.

He’s also generous. He recently pledged to pay the college tuition for 1100 underprivileged kids in Ohio, costing his foundation about $40 million. He has made public stands against systematic inequality. He stood up for all outspoken athletes by defending himself against a Fox News reporter who told James to “shut up and dribble” after he said the championship team would not visit the White House. He’s since created a hash tag: #morethananathlete.

Those social media moments can appear opportunistic, but the only real measure of them is what they mean to others. What James says matters – perhaps it matters even more to his audience than what the President says. It’s a bizarre position for a basketball player to be in.

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James, however, is not without his haters. His on-court behaviour can be petulant. He’s quick to blame others, and he’s a natural complainer. But those criticisms about him are invisible next to his effect on the sport and the teams he plays with. He has dragged his teams into the NBA finals eight years running. He’s 203 centimetres tall, weighs about 110 kilograms, and remains virtually immune to injury and bad form. He combines a kind of panther's mobility with vision and finesse, which he applies at the both ends of the court.

When his body eventually fails him, James will not go quietly. He has an idea about himself that reaches beyond basketball – to where, exactly, no one knows. He lives now in a world of his own making.