LeBron James, Joakim Noah, and the Art of Dislike

Mysteries resonate even more than memories do. Forty years after Watergate, and still we puzzle over the 18-minute-gap. Who, ultimately, in Carly Simon's life was "so vain"? What, pray-tell, did Bill Murray whisper to Scarlett Johannson at the end of Lost In Translation that convinced her to return to the states and join an elite team of superheroes? The remarkably competitive Eastern Conference Semifinals between the Cavaliers and the Bulls has given us a new secret to ponder: What, exactly, did Joakim Noah say to LeBron James?

That question became one of the focal points of the series's swing through Chicago, which is strange given how many important basketball things actually happened. Games 3 and 4 saw desperate performances, dramatic momentum shifts, and dueling buzzer beaters. The most hotly anticipated matchup in the Eastern Conference has now shortened into a tense best of three.

What's distinguished these games are their clear, highly-pitched emotion—the games are not always pretty, and have been ragged, but they are honest in their wild-eyed commitment. The fire that burns between the game's greatest superstar and the perennial instigator who has never been able to push past him is both a part of that and something different; what LeBron James and Joakim Noah are doing is, almost, outside the game.

The Cleveland Cavaliers have no recent post-season history with the Bulls, or, for that matter, anyone, given their recent, "Decision"-induced franchise hibernation. But LeBron James has met this Chicago team in the playoffs on three previous occasions, and advanced to the next round each time. It's enough to make a man of Joakim Noah's pride and intensity say… well, who knows exactly? Something that seemed not very nice.

"I think the words he used to me was a little bit too far," said James of Noah's trash talk during Game 3, "I'm a father with three kids. It got very disrespectful."

Whatever words were sent LeBron's way, he responded as only an all-world basketball player can, with a one-handed dunk over Noah's too-little-too-late help defense, followed by a staredown, and some return fire that drew a technical foul for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Noah, for his part, played ignorant when asked about his comments, "Disrespectful? I got mad respect for LeBron. We're just two players trying to win a game. That's all. I don't know what he's talking about. I'm just trying to win games for my team."

While it's likely that Noah has at least some idea what LeBron is talking about, it's also probably for the best that his insults remain unspoken. It would be a shame if some truly offensive language sullied the perception of what has been, over the last few years, one of the sport's most superheated rivalries. Whatever the personal animosity between the two, the appreciation that each man has for the other's game has always been clear.

"(He's) probably like Perk," LeBron said before the series began, comparing Noah's provocative nature to his team's own tough guy in residence, Kendrick Perkins, "A guy that you hate to compete against but if he's your teammate, you probably, you love him. I'm guessing that's what it is." Noah, for his part, long ago entered the passive aggressive sports compliment Hall Of Fame by describing LeBron's Miami Heatles as "Hollywood as hell," before adding, "but they're still very good, so you've got to give credit where credit is due."

That, in a nutshell, is the LeBron/Noah relationship: deep and clear mutual irritation, mixed with a grudging realization that their rival is in fact very good at what they do. Game 4 saw more of this. Noah, while struggling to make any impact offensively in the series, continues to make his presence felt as a defensive anchor; he grabbed 15 rebounds, and, in the closing minutes, drew an offensive foul on James that opened the possibility of a series-swining rally and a commanding 3-1 lead. In the closing seconds, with the game tied, LeBron drove to the basket and at Noah, and did not draw the whistle; it appeared, for one weekend at least, that Chicago's agitator-in-chief might finally win one. One dramatic, King James buzzer beater from the corner later, and suddenly these teams are back where they began; all square, hurting, coaching concerns, and chasing an Eastern Conference Championship that will go to the most resilient, least damaged team. Whichever that turns out to be.

That, finally, is going to be a basketball question. One hallmark of this era of basketball has been the consistent complaint that unlike the brutal, foul-mouthed, legitimately rageful rivalries of the '80s and '90s, this generation of stars is too chummy with one another. Admiration between athletes, so the argument goes, takes the edge off the competition. Of course, anyone who watched seven exquisite games between the Spurs and Clippers, characterized by, at times, gushing praise between both sides, realizes that bad blood is not at all necessary for beautiful basketball.

But a little bit of personal acrimony, built up over the course of eight years of subtle elbows and strategic trash talk, has added a great deal to a series that has made up in passion what it has lacked in textbook execution. Three games remain to settle things, and James and Noah will once again be at the center, and at each other's throat. Their rivalry is captivating, not only because they have shared so much history, but because of the moments between them that we will never know. We know they don't seem to like each other; we can only guess and watch at the rest. The mystery is part of what brings us back.