Dear Abby, my name is LeBron and I need a man in my life

Dear Abby,
My name is LeBron and I need advice. I’ve done pretty well for myself over the last decade. A lot of people wear my name on their back, and I earn more money in a single day than most Americans earn in a year. I’m popular with women, and my coworkers seem to like me.

But a few weeks ago, I made a series of questionable decisions because I had no one to give me good, solid advice. I was deciding where to work next year, and I had potential employers all around the country trying to lure me. My heart was really in Cleveland, where I’ve worked for the last seven years, but the other guys in my office were holding me back -- the second most valuable employee was this little guy named Mo. The boss tried teaming me up with an over-the-hill, overweight clown that looks like Grimace giving birth to a McNugget. And this was supposed to keep me in my home state.

So my enablers -- Nike reps, high school hang-ons, a few AAU coaches still throwing my name out there because I played a few games for them -- thought it would be really cool for me to announce my decision on ESPN, where everyone would watch me triumphantly return to my home city.

The only problem was that I had already decided to go work in Miami with my best friends, so now I had to destroy the hearts of Ohioans in front of a worldwide audience. I had to become the guy I hate.

The crew told me not to worry, that the people of Cleveland would always love me. I should have figured it out Thursday morning when every gas station in Ohio sold out of lighter fluid, but I was already in Connecticut confusing the country.

When it came time to make my decision, the Nike guys told me to go play with my friends and win championships. They told me I’d still be the man, because I’ve always been the man. They told me this other guy in my industry, Michael Jordan, sold a ton of shoes when he won championships, so the key was to go to the place where I could win the most titles.

Now, I’m with Dwyane and Chris (they are really cool guys), but it doesn’t feel right. Dwyane is on the front of every magazine, and Michael, Charles and Magic think I’m a wuss. I’m 6-foot-8 and built like a dump truck, but no one remembers that anymore. The whole country outside of Miami hates me -- even Jay-Z. It’s like I have leprosy, but lepers don’t have my kind of talent. What should I do?


Dear LeBron,

We know who you are, and we feel your pain. Everyone felt unbearable contractions-by-the-minute pain during “The Decision.” The problem is that you need a real man in your life. The enablers have to go, and you need some time apart from Dwyane and Chris.

You need Pat Riley.

You’re in Miami, so enjoy yourself. It might not have been your best destination, but now it’s up to Riley to turn the naysayers and haters into admirers who respect you. They might never love you again, but you don’t need love. You need rings and respect.

Remember that scene in Oliver Stone’s “Any Given Sunday” when aging coach Tony D’Amato (played by Al Pacino, who absolutely has to play Pat Riley in a movie) awkwardly tries to become a father figure to Willie Beamen? He hands Beamen a jazz cassette tape and raps a few wise words that make Beamen the man he is today.

Riley needs to be your Pacino. It’s not to say a young, black superstar needs an old, white man to keep him grounded. But Riley brought you here, and he needs to be the dad you never had.

He doesn’t need to do it by coaching. Assuming Erik Spolestra can keep everyone’s egos in check and defensive intensity where it needs to be, leave the coaching to Spol and the mentoring to Riles.

Riley needs to send you an inspirational text message at 2 a.m. and remind you why you’re in Miami. For those games when Dwyane scores 50 and you end up with 18 points, eight rebounds and eight assists, Riley needs to remind you that his first project, Magic Johnson, was his greatest of all. You’re the modern day Magic, not Michael, and Riley needs to craft that message in a way that will never make you regret your decision to play for the Heat.

You had Mike Brown and Paul Silas, but those guys didn’t have Riley’s clout. One mishap with you, and they were checking Craigslist for work. Riley is the Heat.

You were sold on Miami because it’s a Family with a capital F. Alonzo Mourning, while never feeling your pressure, came from a similar background and had that father-son relationship with Riley. Tim Hardaway was more like the Fresh Prince, with Riley playing the role of Uncle Phil, but it usually worked out.

Bill Walton and Kareem had John Wooden. Jordan had Dean Smith. And for this whole crazy thing to work, you need a long term relationship with Pat Riley.

Yours, Abby