Wham with the right hand!

I’ve lost him to the world. And now, starting on Friday morning, Manila time, the whole planet will be rooting for him and his team. Well, except perhaps for some die-hard denizens of Motor City still whining over the end of their short-lived era, and those around the Riverwalk in a Don’t-mess-with-Texas city known to have enshrined remembrance, named as it is after the patron saint of lost causes.

For the next two weeks, starting with two home games of the NBA Finals at the Alamadome in San Antonio, we’ll all see if they remember LeBron James and the Cavaliers.

My boy TheBron had just turned 21, on December 30, 2005, when I started a file log on his growing accomplishments, by cut-and-pasting accounts from Internet sports sources, including the Cleveland Cavaliers home page and its Fans Forum. That’s besides all the downloaded pics of high-flying.

Here’s the start of the first entry I’ve kept on file, which has grown to over a thousand pages if I ever printed it out. This one’s titled “23 is 21: Here’s to LeBron — Cavs star celebrates big birthday today; teammates give gifts of advice”:

“LeBron James turns 21 today, and the young man who could buy almost anything is now a man who can buy alcohol.

“His family, friends and teammates celebrated with a private dinner followed by a public benefit Wednesday night at the House of Blues in Cleveland.

“James shares his birthday with golfer Tiger Woods and Hall of Fame pitcher Sandy Koufax, but neither of those sports greats had tasted such success by his 21st birthday.

“James promised not to go wild tonight, with the Cavaliers having an important afternoon game with the Detroit Pistons on Saturday. But being world famous, fabulously wealthy and wildly successful, he’ll have a great deal to toast to.”

That was from Brian Windhorst, sportswriter for Akron Beacon Journal, LBJ’s hometown paper.

Since his high school playing days for St. Vincent-St. Mary in Ohio, LeBron’s been hyped up like no other basketball player. Sports Illustrated gave him serial cover treatment once he jumped from high school to the NBA, at age 18, dubbing him as “The Chosen One” — a label the magic child promptly had tattooed on his back.

But until last Friday noon here, after the critical Game 5 against dreaded Detroit in the Eastern Conference Finals, which turned out to be a double-overtime classic, maybe only basketball freaks like me knew more about LeBron James other than that he was billed as the next great superstar, perhaps the successor to Michael Jordan, whose number 23 he jersey-sports in homage.

Oh yes, he was pressed into service for Team USA for the Summer of 2004 and 2006, but failed to carry through to a world title despite the last campaign’s co-captaincy with Dwyane Wade and Carmelo Anthony, his peers in the illustrious NBA Draft Class of 2003.

And for his fourth season in the NBA, it seemed for long stretches that last summer’s training and international matches had drained him of energy and resolve. After a good start, the Cavs sputtered and gave up the No. 1 ranking in the East to the Pistons, even getting overtaken by the Chicago Bulls towards the homestretch, until fluke endgames got them back on track for easier passage as No. 2 through the playoffs.

Throughout the season, despite what seemed a stronger team than last year’s, the Cavs were up and down the form charts. LeBron appeared to defer too much to his teammates, seeing his scoring average drop, albeit he kept up the stats stuffing with rebounds and assists. Criticism centered on too much selflessness and lack of a mean streak, better yet a killer instinct. He was no Michael or Kobe.

As early as last November’s season start, I remarked with all nonchalance to anyone who cared to listen that I looked forward to a Cavs-Spurs Finals in June, this June. Many friends, on default as practical cynics, laughed me out of town and cyberspace, while many others snickered behind my behind.

I can forgive them now. I understand that not everyone has a lock on whiffs of destiny. Or fantasy. Ah, but when that sensing of Fate intersects with the familiar crux of cockeyed optimism, no power in the world can stop the dreamweaving.

And so. And so. We come to the ultimate clutch hour, the pinnacle of primetime crunchtime. And how did the Wine and Gold get here? With a rookie coach in Mike Brown whom textmates and I kept cursing for the lack of offensive sets, the insistence on a slowdown, walk-up mode that turned into what he called “random offense”?

My boy BronBron was allowed to pound the ball at midcourt, as point forward, and take too long to assess what the defense gave him, often leading to failed buzzer beaters. Instead of quick drives to the hole and making use of his gifts of size, speed, strength and acrobatic talent. Instead of learning to play without the ball, timing cuts so he gets a dime for easy thunderous dunks.

Well, okay, the Cavs don’t have a good passing point guard, which is also why LBJ always tops the dish stat. But surely even center Zydrunas Ilgauskas and power forward Drew Gooden can be taught to whip the ball to a cutting James for an unstoppable stuff. And Joe Tait, radio announcer for Cleveland basketball, can launch even more often into his trademark “Wham with the right hand!”

And... wait, okay, this is all armchair theorist turf now, so maybe we should cut Brown and Bron and the rest of the team some slack, and enjoy the moment. Time to acknowledge that the Cavs coaching staff has somehow found a way — no doubt after taking in all the miron comments and curses from the Fans Board — to find the right spots for its 9-to-10-man rotation.

Mid-season, Larry Hughes replaced defensive specialist Eric Snow as point. Sasha Pavlovic shed his defensive liability and became a starting two-guard. Boobie Gibson, the second-round draft pick from Texas, only 21 in his rookie year, has become a revelation, helping win two playoff games against the Pistons with his accuracy from the long court.

And now they’ve stumbled into a semi-platoon system, with the second team led by point forward LeBron, complemented by a hyperactive Anderson Varejao at the post and three spot-up shooters to spread the floor, in Gibson, Damon Jones, and Donyell Marshall. It’s worked incredibly well against teams that throw double- and triple-team schemes at King James.

For that memorable Game Five against the Pistons, however, it was sheer will on LBJ’s part that ended the Bad Boys II’s cocky dominance. Just as Michael Jordan and the Bulls had done after two frustrating years of running up against the hump that was Detroit, finally achieving the breakthrough in 1991, so did the 2006-07 Cavaliers punch through with a gritty, spectacular performance, quickly hailed as “one for the ages” by Lebron James: 48 points, the last 25 scored in succession through fourth-quarter crunchtime and two overtimes.

Gibson’s own record-setting 31 points, 19 in the last quarter, in Game Six’s close-out against the imploding Pistons was all gravy.

So now it comes to pass. Comparisons to MJ have turned more odious, with arguments flying fast on whether the new No. 23’s performance has been Jordanesque or simply LeBronesque. It took Jordan seven years to win a title, which he did at 27. James finds himself at the cusp much earlier, on only his fourth year in the league, at 22.

And that is why the heady scent of destiny wafts into my ken, as it should in yours, as the NBA Finals begins this Friday. No way the basketball gods, let alone NBA Commissioner David Stern, will allow everything to have come to this — my and now the rest of the globe’s dream match-up — only to render an anticlimactic closure. No way!

How do we do it? Easy. I’ll tell you how it goes. We steal one at the Alamodome, because the Spurs have turned fat with the extra days of waiting, and Tony Parker’s been with Eva Longoria all those nights, so he’ll be less of a speed demon for Game One. Besides, Boobie can run a bit with him, and the Cavs’ frontcourt will know how to close him out from the paint, sometimes. And with all his effort and spent energy, Le Tony won’t be able to close out on Boobie who will drain all those three-pointers. For family and friends in Texas.

Another interesting match-up is the athletic Pavlovic on the devil-may-care Manu Ginobili. At times, Larry Hughes takes him on, after failing to keep in step with Parker. Tim Duncan will be his Championship Finals self, earning double-doubles in points and caroms in every game. But I wouldn’t worry about him. He’ll only get his plodding due; he hardly ever scores over 30 to be that monstrous. And Z or The Large Lithuanian can offset that a little with his own modest double-doubles. Then it’s Gooden and/or Brazilian Varejao on Argentine Fabricio Oberto. Wonderful. Pit bulls under the boards!

Defensive specialist Bruce Bowen on James? Hah! Last summer, Bowen was reported to have called out LeBron for ordering Team USA staff around without even knowing their names. Well, in San Antonio and Cleveland, the bruising Bruce will get to memorize the signatures behind all those tattoos of his impossible assignment. Only! I daresay LBJ will still average more than a 27-7-7 in six to seven games before holding that trophy aloft for a long-starved city to finally revel in. And no amount of physical trickery on Robert Horry’s part can prevent that.

Oh yes, new converts to LeBron & the Cavs’ cause point out that karmic meltdown may face the Spurs, who may have stolen their finals slot from the Phoenix Suns with Horry’s clever, cynical tackle on Steve Nash. Well, we have Scott Pollard as 11th man to level Big Shot Bob.

Tell you what: when a mother ponders and comes up with such an inspired name for a child as LeBron Ramone James, you can be sure that the gods will smile on him, just as they did on Marlon, Elvis, and Engelbert Humperdinck. No way will King James be preempted from coronation in the 2007 NBA Finals.

Oh so many other reasons to ensure a first title for the Wine and Gold. My buddies in SF, Houston, NY, Dumaguete, Cebu, Davao and Baguio just have to keep texting that we’ve won yet another one. My kid sis in LA is all set to pick up a Cavaliers championship tee for me. How can we all be disappointed by a team whose monicker can only dig into stallions’ flanks?

The world can have him now. I’m assured of longevity, knowing my BronBron will play another 13 to 15 years before he retires, and maybe, just maybe, eclipse those six rings won by the first superhuman No. 23. And I’ll be watching him, till they hang up his own No. 23 at the Q in Cleveland.

Go Cavs! All the way with LBJ! Wham with the right hand!