Before I started reading Rich Paul’s memoir, I knew just a smidgen about him. I knew he was a successful sports agent. I knew from reading clips he had a tendency to piss people off.

I knew he had developed a close personal and professional relationship with LeBron James on the basis of a chance meeting in 2002, when James was 17 and on the cusp of turning pro. (Paul was the ancient age of 21.) And I assumed, like many, that James was responsible for his success, the ultimate business card—in other words, luck. Just as you didn’t fuck around with James on the basketball court, you didn’t fuck around with his close friends.