Stephen Curry, what a show-off.

We can all see how good you are . . . there is no need to prove anything to anyone. All that fancy stuff - come on, how about acting like everyone else and sticking with the conventional. Surely this isn’t your notion of normality.

Oh, it is. Well, all right then, you must be the real deal and no show-off. Keep this kind of form up and there will be no doubters as to whether you are worth every cent of that four year, twelve million dollar contract.

Making that kind of money, many would expect the generating of extravagant stats each and every game.

That you did here was there for all to see. Outrageous three pointers, lay-ups with the baffling speed that belies an adequate 6ft3” 180 pound frame, free-throws, field goals galore and there was even time to set up your Golden state teammates for shots with your wickedly surreal match vision. Fifty-one percent of Golden State’s points came from the deadly anarchy of your shooting arm.

Fifty-four points, keep this up and you will soon enter Basketball folklore. Already a season best for any NBA player and following a thirty-eight point effort the night before this stuff will soon become the new habitat for you. In a losing side you were the core. At one time you had shot fourteen out of fifteen from the far flung reaches of your talent’s capabilities in three-point land. All this without the help of All-Star David Lee, through suspension, you could not have done anymore.

In the end a young smallish team could not beat the law in the form of the New York Knicks. 109-105 and Golden State were out-sized. Still, a mighty effort it was from each and all. For all the world it looked like a match-up between David and Goliath, such was the size difference between the two sides. By rights it should have been a cake walk for the Knicks.

With Golden State down by fourteen and achieving a scintilla of success mid way through the first quarter, with you shooting only two from six three-pointers, you upped the ante and traversed the ravine of boulder like obstacles standing in the way.

Up against the likes of Carmelo Anthony and Tyson Chandler, not the best of the best, but hey, they are not too far away, you treated the talented duos reputations with disdain. Or then again maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was the challenge of taking on two stars of the game and beating them that elevated you to the imposing peaks of the otherworldly. Anything they can do, you can outdo. That you did. A smile on the dial, oh what fun, it was all a bit of a Lear, for you didn’t care you had no fear.

Why worry when you and your mates are fighting above your weight? Relax, go out and rock everyone’s world. You did. Forty-eight minutes of game time, you were out on your feet with five minutes to go. You bravely fought on, routinely coming up with the most outlandish of plays. Tired legs yet a mind so straight that keeps on keeping on, you’re a good one.

Not only was this an epic individual performance but appreciative teammates came along for the ride. They exalted their performances on the back of a truly inspirational individual effort. In the end it wasn’t quite enough, but it was plenty mesmerising. Many a fan is on their way.

Such a young team with a future laden with potential success, it may take a couple of years no less. The heat is slowly but surely building, as is your individual performance.

You keep this up and none of us will be able to tell whether you’re showing off or not.

Lebron James form is so hot even fire itself gives him a wide berth.

Unlike fire deprived of oxygen, his form threatens to burn for many a decade. His foe can only stand the heat for so long. Eventually that furnace suffocates the opposition of their ability to counter his genius.

His is a brightly oiled vista of star spangled heavenly endeavours, culminating in a virtual feeding frenzy of elongated success, stretching the pre-conceived boundaries as to what his already prodigious bent could achieve. Said abilities were always there, perhaps not quite as refined as they are in the now, but still more than enough for his coaches to work with. More importantly, there is enough for the big man to improve on as he puts in all the extras in his own time. After all, desire comes from the depths of one’s mind. With James that mind is an oasis of well lubricated acuteness, as is his Basketball talent.

Since the small forward’s debut back in what seems like the distant past of 2006, the 6ft8” James’ statistics have improved with each passing season. Free-throws, rebounds, assists per game, field goals and shots from afar; every season he keeps expanding. Not for James to stagnate. He knows the way forward to greatness is to keep the progress in the positive. Nor is he one to concern himself as to what others think of him.

Three years ago he was ridiculed for announcing to the world that, along with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh, he was going to decimate all before him for many a year to come. They signed with the Heat. In their minds a dynasty was on the verge of animation. The future foresaw a better countenance for him than the one he had in Cleveland. A few fans were, to put it mildly, disappointed that he chose to leave. But that is bye the by, I guess. It was onwards and upwards. There was to be a change in fortune. Indeed, he is one of the rare to prosper having had their form go south. Miami it was for the foreseeable future. Sun, surf and those few titles he was so confident of attaining beckoned.

Aiming for the stars and all that, it was going to be more than just a few. The Lebron James show was due to begin.

Now there is a risk that this outlandish prophecy could occur.

2012 came and went; he won an NBA championship ring. He finally did it. Eight seasons since his rookie year – it is here. It didn’t sink in immediately but, sure enough, it did eventually.

“Oh my God, I think it just hit me, I'm a CHAMPION, I’m a CHAMPION”. So said LBJ, on his twitter account, the day after. Now he knows what it feels like, you suspect he wants more.

And here is the chance to finally deliver on that enormous potential that he was lucky enough to be born with. Sure, there are not going to be eight NBA titles in a row like the great Celtics era of the 1960’s, what with the salary cap and all, but another few appear to be well within his grasp. It won’t be easy, but he has come to realise that. This, in part, is what makes multiple titles more realistic. He discovered that one didn’t come easy, and knowing now how hard it is to attain the heights of the heavens, he has taken to the current season with a verve of one who knows what fruits are at the end of the ladder of hard work.

Twenty-eight, it took him awhile, but that wait never stopped him. He kept rising, never knowing when the air would become too rarefied for his abilities. Soon the talisman of all talismens will be there. You know, the heavens - that abode made for you, where the sky is blue, the birds flew and the pantheon of stars awaits you.

Now he is the biggest of fish in the biggest of seas, without a care in the world such does his talent run free, addicted to the pursuit of excellence, many a enemy have attempted to stymie.

Not even Kevin Durant could stop the dream wrecking machine, the same Kevin Durant who has sparked quite the inferno himself in 2013. Along with James, he could keep fire-fighters in business, the Country wide. I mean, if it wasn’t for the presence of LBJ, Durant would be a shoo in for MVP. Instead his chances have been assassinated by LBJ’s continued quest for improvement. The NBA’s second best player has been made to look like a weekend hack. They were battering away at each other to gain the title of best in the NBA. Now James has won by a knockout and is the king. I suppose there is a reason that he is nicknamed King James, after all. And to think they said all those sightings were bogus.

He reigns supreme as the scarp of his talent loomed large over his foes receding hopes of success, shadowing their every move as the millstone of sobriety lowered its bow to the tentacles of despair, swimming for an eternity into a tsunami of forlorn hope.

That shadow only grows with time; darkening the air for all that cross that path, except, of course, LeBron James and his equally dedicated teammates.

Not all that many years ago a new model was released into the tennis world. It was an original, one of a kind. Shots galore emanated from its pores. Strong off either wing, the results could be devastating.

Capable of mountainous snow filled highs, it also came with the lows of the dales.

This model, the Djockovic mark1, sparkled on the outside. Flash it was, though some would suggest that, at times, he was nothing more than over-paid primadonna; strutting, preening, swaggering and prancing to the beat of an over-rated drum, unable to do the dance.

You see, the problem was that this particular model came with optional extras – and not necessarily the good kind. There were imitations of other players. This may be amusing to the fans but it is not exactly the way to endear oneself to your peers. Often it appeared that it could not last the distance physically, either. Oh, and those breakdowns (injuries) that happened along at the most inopportune of moments. Usually when he was losing, it has to be said. Mental toughness had not yet struck up a lasting friendship with the man from Serbia.

It turns out that even though bones may not be malleable, a foe’s will can be manipulated to bend.

Unfortunately for Novak Djockovic it was his will that was contorted with monotonous regularity. At the tender age of twenty he had yet to truly find his rightful existence. Such was the psyche of his vexing vanity vainly attempting to validate its various visages as the vague valedictorian in him verified venomous volumes of visceral vitality that could no longer be sustained.

Never mind that this model had won its first grand slam title in 2008 at the Australian Open. It was to be another three years before Slam number two was to countenance more than a horizon.

It was not generating the results that had been hoped for.

Something had to give - and it did. So it was back to the garage and an overhaul while the potential superstar was still young enough to rotate his fortunes to the good.

Come the beginning of 2011 and the Djockovic mark2 was launched. Now this was a model that wasn’t just a veneer of showy one-upmanship. It was to contain much more in the way of the necessary substance required to be a championship contender on a regular basis.

Gone was the fair weather mind of the mark1. The icy winds of his now hardened mind were furnished with the rigid decor of steel readying itself to send a wintery blast in the direction of yet another unsuspecting foe. No longer was he the yellow belly of days rendered obsolete, ready to concede defeat at the slightest hint of tough times ahead. Indeed, his vast range of talents throttled their way up the ramp of prosperity, veering towards the likeliest of other-worldly attacking displays, setting up camp at the utopia of high end performance and leaving his opponents damp from their stay at the coalface of tyrannical hardship without the lamp of hope to light up the dimmest of roads ahead.

This was much to the dismay of many an opposition like Andy Murray.

And ask Andy, he’ll tell you of the effectiveness of the Djockovic model. He was the one, at the recent Australian Open Final, going hammer and tong at the reigning champ.

No matter how hard or how delicately he struck his shots, the Djockovic would out hit and out finesse him right back.

With a memorandum of nonchalant negligence neatly heralding in a sinisterly smelling smorgasbord of fiendishly fickle dalliances, daring one frozen defender to double his efforts from afar, this attacking perpetrator of doom and gloom went about his business busily busting barricades of defence to smithereens as he smashed his way to yet another smothering victory.

Eventually, Murray’s slathering slant of defence shivered in its slivering shell of slanderous shelter sharing not so slight melodramatic masses of fluctuating fortunes that the arguably fermented fervour of a cascading concourse careering headlong his way, with yet another mercilessly cruel wall of deceit, could not be starved off.

And by the end of the final, Murray was as far from a win as he had ever been.

That is the thing with Djockovic. You can match him for two and a half sets, but such is the ferocity, not to mention his relentlessness, that anyone brave enough to challenge the champ is eventually worn down mentally. For his game often appears to be one rocket propelled missile after another, each weapon seemingly content in the knowledge that widespread destruction will encompass his foes hopes of success in a darkened capsule of despair.

Djockovic at his best was simply too good for the rest.

It turns out that his bumper year of 2011 was no mirage. This time the makers had come up with more than just a few fancy mod cons in the form of superlative ground strokes to be hauled out every so often. They had made the complete model: brilliant shots, superb fitness, and maturity mixed with an unbeatable brand of mental toughness. This all adds up to one of the most reliable ever seen on the market.

Three years, three Australian titles in a row, that long walk down the sanctified corridor of champions to centre court, and he is in the process of transcending all before.

What is truly frightening is the thought of a Djockovic mark3.

RG111 . . . the crowd chants, RG111 . . . the crowd roars, RG111 RG111 - the game hasn’t begun, still the crowd goes hoarse for their hero.

No sight of him just yet, but the fans work themselves into a capricious frenzy.
But don’t fear he’s there, with all the right moves and a team of willing mates riding the wave of RG111 mania all the way to this weekend’s playoffs - Seattle, beware.

RG111, we don’t use his full name – that‘s how well known he is, even this early in his career. But what a star – first year and all, only lightly seasoned until now, with not so much as a drop of salt to far, the twenty-two year old RG111 is having a jolly time of it in his rookie season. His arteries of talent not blocked from the inhibitions of experience, the flange of the Washington Redskin’s has guided his side to finals football.

For sure, no tourist, he’s been in the thick of things from the beginning. Even now, despite the hindrance of a troublesome knee injury, the fate of this side hangs on the youthful shoulders of RG111 as he attempts to keep his team from visiting the tomb of defeat and repel the raiders of the West Coast.

Never mind that the Redskins are playing away, on a small croft of soil in an inhospitable environment far from the comforts of home, this lot are a professional bunch.

No moaning, no groaning, they do the business. All led by playmaker, RG111, sore knee and all, he’s there for the team. He is a star but he’ll play through pain if need be, he is the key.

In an upward arc of form this season, they have already made finals football – that will do for them nicely. You’ve got to start somewhere, after all. But why stop there for Washington are on the verge of the unthinkable; sating the appetite of fans that lust after an eagerly awaited return to the glory days of a Superbowl they last won in 1991.

So there you are, a young star on his first steps towards a rich tapestry of future fame, fortune and glory.

What, you’re still unsure who this is all about?

Oh, okay, for those few of you that have been living beneath a rock, he’s Robert Griffin111 . . . superstar, yet, consummate team man.

Hey Venus, how about one more for the road?

Go on, it won’t harm you. Flush it down with aplomb; let the rest drown their sorrows out in the meadow.

Just one more slam title, to accentuate to the masses that you really are one of the greats.

We all know, and accept, that you may not be the force you were of yesteryear. You won five Wimbledon’s and a couple of US Open’s back in the pomp of your mid twenties.

Those were the days, the days when your competitors would have no choice but to succumb to your brutal talents. That is why, I suppose, you were World number one.

Never could you be accused of being drunk in charge of a tennis racquet, such was – and is – your talent. You were the star, burning brightly, as you destructively went about dismantling a bevy of tennis princesses. Davenport, Henin, Clijsters, Hingis, Capriati and the like, you had their measure. They may have been the princesses of the circuit, but you were the queen. And rule you did.

Even that young upstart sister of yours, Serena, more often than not would be at your mercy, doing your bidding. You shone above all.

You achieved the rush that one gets when perched upon the giddy heights of world domination. The thrill of winning the holy grail of Tennis, Wimbledon, in front of ten thousand adoring fans, that’s what it is all about. It doesn’t get much better than that. Or perhaps it does. For, to win in your own Country, now that really is something. And you did it twice.

Twice you won in New York, the city that never sleeps. It’s where you regularly dealt with your foe in a New York minute. Such was your ruthlessness that they would come and they would go, with you swatting the parasites away with the efficiency of the most disdainful of tennis dictators.

Then, as with every reign, you lost your Midas touch. That perch that you looked down upon the mere mortals of this highly competitive sport suddenly dumped upon you. The star had lost its aura, the glow was no more as the planets failed to align for the once mighty Venus.

The titles were no longer a foregone conclusion. Serena overtook you, challenging the family hierarchy. You were on a slippery slope, and it wasn’t to nowhere. Indeed, it was all downhill, slip sliding your way into the murky dusk of oblivion.

But now is the opportunity to put a halt to this malaise, to rise, like the mighty phoenix, from the ashes to once again soar into the stratosphere of ball playing splendour. This is the time to show all and sundry that the grand old lady of the pro circuit is still alive and kicking, that she is still capable of the grandest of performances and that age has not wearied the mind, nor body.

Come on, do it one more time, Venus.

We’re all behind you, willing you on as you climb yet another peak in what has been a stellar career. After all, there is nothing quite like a fairytale ending to keep the sporting hearts of the world upbeat.

So now is the time to find that peerless form whereby your racquet head is once again firing down the most menacing of serves, pounding your opposition into submission. And those ground strokes – fearsome things they are. Feel free to, once again, allow them their day in the sun with the fluff of a ball fluttering in awe at the mastery of a magician that regularly has balls bidding a sniggering adieu to many a wrong footed foe.

How about it, Venus? Just one more for the road, to sign off in style, and allow those that once feted over the grandest of them all a chance to see that, yes indeed, the queen is still alive.

Man, what a gigantic cock-up that was.

There they were, a couple of Chinese, two South Koreans and some Indonesians deliberately attempting to lose a match.

What has the sport of Badminton come to?

For so long a sport without corruption, it was now being laid out flat from the tainted actions of a small number of cynical souls.

Talk about making things hard for themselves. Four Women’s doubles pairings hitting a shuttlecock every which way but in, in a shameful attempt to manipulate results to their liking. All of this just to get on the right side of the draw.

So glad they had the confidence in their abilities to take on all-comers.

They couldn’t even muster up enough respect for the Olympic spirit, which it must be said failed miserably to insert itself into the psyche of these women as they defiled the game with their sinister intentions.

Oh well, quaint wee notion anyway.

Luckily, though, officials were alert to the nefarious methods of a few bad eggs, catching them in time before they escaped and impregnated the sport with their mischievous and devilish intentions.

More than likely, this will lead some to say how unfortunate that this has occurred at such a high profile event. Truth to the feather, while we all would prefer nothing untoward happens at any event, let alone the Olympics, that it has under the glare of the big daddy of Badminton Internationals may be a blessing in disguise.

There is now no hiding from the fact that these practices are part of the fabric of this highly skilled sport. And now is the time to stamp it out. To deal with this ticklish poser before it enters the throes of a widespread aneurysm that has become awash with a cancerous shaft of muddy waters that risk exploding through the floodgates of the authorities defences.

Hope remains though. The guilty parties were expelled with a swift ride out the back door with no one to blame but themselves. What’s worse was their lack of smarts in how they went about achieving their goals. In no way should their behaviour be condoned, but one would have thought that they may like to go about their misdeeds in a manner a little less obvious.

So, not only are they now seen as cheats, but also somewhat on the dim side, too.

And the irony of their actions remains that not one of them managed to gain any satisfaction from the end result after being unceremoniously dumped from the Olympic tournament.

To further reinforce the point to these players that their actions will not be tolerated, the International Badminton Federation might like to consider a lengthy ban on top of their disqualification.

Only then could we be sure that there are no more shuttlecocks open to being manipulated for a long time to come.

His time has come. At long last it has come. He must have wondered if and when it would all come together. But those long tortuous hours spent pushing the boundaries of physical endeavour are finally bringing the rewards that one so dedicated richly deserves.

Is he a pretender? Not on your Nellie he’s not.

Yes, Bradley Wiggins is in the now, showing any remaining sceptics that he is indeed the real deal.

Having bided his time patiently waiting for that rarest of opportunities - a Tour de France title - here he is, displaying without a shadow of a doubt that he is well and truly a contender for one of the biggest sporting shows on Earth.

The prime contender that is. Not for him a position as an auxiliary unit. He is far too talented for that.

One of the big guns, firing on all cylinders, the Belgium born Brit resident with the biggest of engines has powered his way to the front of the field.

The maillot jaune becomes him. He wears the honour with a calm presence that befits the scintillating scenery that is the high stakes of the Tour de France.

His form is such that he has the pot full with all the necessary ingredients and in the methodical way that only a true professional can he is bringing two of those key qualities of peerless time trialling and strong hill climbing to the boil nicely.

First he goes and matches defending champ Cadel Evans on the initial hill stage of this year’s tour. And it is not as if Evans didn’t attack. Of course he did, he is the defending champ, but it was to no avail as Wiggins defended grimly, determined not to blow the biggest chance of his already stellar career.

STOP it, Bradley. This can’t continue.

Keep this up and the cycling world really will start to believe in you. Now, we can’t have that can we; after all, you may start to do a splendid impersonation of a champion.

There he was on the final ascent of stage eight, a short 6km (average gradient 14%) climb to the finish, with the last three hundred metres at a gradient of twenty-two percent. Not his cup of tea to be honest. The big man is more suited to the long gradual climbs.

But here he was matching Evans spoke for spoke, proving that he is in the form of his life.

All those hours on a training bike, all those missions scouting routes such as this, and all those heartbreaking weeks spent away from his wife and children - the sacrifice is in the process of paying dividends in the form of achieving a lifelong dream.

That same dream is giving him the pleasure of sparring against one of the best in the business, Cadel Evans.

If matching Evans in one of the champ’s favoured arenas of action was the jab that knocked his rival off guard momentarily, then his performance in the next day’s time trial was the left hook that put Evans to the canvass. Sure the Australian got back up and fought on, but he now knows that he has the fight of his life on his hands.

Vulnerability has been ushered into Evans cycling psyche.

The same cannot be said of Wiggins. His confidence will be soaring as high as one of those formidable Alps that have converged on the event. This race, though, is one that he currently holds in the palm of his hand. This should make it relatively easy to maintain his control over the peloton.

The thirty-two year old Brit knows all he has to do is protect a 1m 53s lead over Evans and one hundred and sixty or so other predators that take great delight in tearing to shreds anything in yellow.

So there is no pressure, Bradley. After all, there are only another nine stages and fifteen hundred and twenty-nine kilometres for him to have to defend that hard fought lead. They will – in particular, Evans – attack at any given moment.

Colors, reputations, they mean nothing to that lot.

But he’s a mod, for he can do it all. Proving that no job is too big or too small for the biggest of targets, not only does Wiggins have the mightiest of individual talents, it seems that he is presiding over what is fast becoming known as a supremely well drilled team unit.

And as anyone well versed in the intricacies of the sport of professional cycling knows, a strong team is imperative. No fearless climbers to help you out in the Alps and you’re toast. Vital to have those eight teammates by the side of said star to protect him from the inevitable crashes that often occur in the first week of proceedings, too.

Team Sky has, thus far, done a superb job of protecting their talisman.

Often seen at the front of the peloton, taking nothing for granted, Wiggins has an eagle eye on the lookout for any attacks that may be aimed his way, for he respects all.

Not for him to underestimate anyone, not least his major protagonist in the form of Evans.

And for good reason as those predicted attacks came thick and fast on stage eleven, yesterday.

This was it, the showdown of all showdowns, a day where four of the meanest, nastiest hill climbs, each with the ugliest chip on their shoulder that could be found for many an Alp, charged the most exorbitant of prices upon entry. That they resent anyone conquering them goes without saying. Only the fittest and toughest may proffer. The rest . . . well, the devil of the bike gets your soul.

Not Wiggins though. He not only survived, but repelled the attacks of Evans.

Then he returned the favour, giving his foe a dose of his own medicine. By stage end, Wiggins had gained another 1m 26s to be 3m 19s ahead of Evans.

His nearest competition is now his teammate, Chris Froom. In other words the Tour de France is his to lose.

All he has to do is avoid crashes, mechanical failures, the usual attacks and any sense of complacency, not to mention a litany of other potential pitfalls that could turn his world upside down.

See, it's really not that hard.

After all, he has survived so far and unlike many of his rivals, he left stage eleven with his cycling soul intact.