It’s me, LeBron.
Eventually, your now-infamous "open letter" to Cleveland fans navigated its way through my normally impenetrable "narcissism" and into my sphere of awareness.
I read it.
Now that I have had the chance to sleep on it, I realize I didn’t handle things as well as I should have. I was unprofessional. I was naïve. I helped engineer the hype machine and just keep chucking fuel into the swirling furnace of outrageous publicity.
I shouldn’t have.
In retrospect, I understand that I have unceremoniously spat in the face of the entire city of Cleveland. I did so slowly, cruelly, and as publicly as possible.
That being said, I want to whole-heartedly thank you for "remarks".
I have come to the conclusion that I mistreated thousands of loyal Cleveland fans, but your letter also reassured me of something else:
Dan Gilbert is a fool; a whiny, incompetent, sniveling nincompoop.
This undeniable fact, more than anything else, is what pushed me out the Ohio door and after greener, or in this case sandier, pastures.
I hustled my heart and soul away for seven years in a Cavaliers uniform.
I ran and jumped and dished and dunked and swatted and smiled.
Fans “Oohhed” and “Aahhed”.
You sat back, happy and fat with revenue.
I said I wanted to win. I needed help.
You tried. You spent. The team wheeled, dealed and maneuvered; recruited, drafted and signed.
After seven years of tireless pursuit of greatness, of victory, I stepped back and looked around.
I saw Delonte West. Jamario Moon. Anderson Varejao.
Antawn Jamison. Mo Williams. Zydrunas Ilgauskus.
I’m supposed to be excited about this?
I played with old man Shaq, the player formally known as Ben Wallace, what’s his name Pavlovic,
Wally Fleeping Szczerbiak, a kid named Boobie, and hoards of other marginal NBA talent.
I stewed in a sea of underwhelming support for the better part of a decade.
Seven years in Cleveland taught me one thing:
DAN GILBERT WILL NEVER BRING A CHAMPIONSHIP TO CLEVELAND!
For seven long painful years I watched the flailing incompetence of management as they desperately tried to stumble across some semblance of legitimate success.
You handled the news like a 12-year-old girl with a broken heart and a nasty temper.
I’m a jerk.
You’re a clown.
Get over it.
The only real curse Cleveland needs to worry about is the one that sits in your office, pompously pointing fingers and clumsily dodging blame.
The long-suffering fans of the city of Cleveland can add another line to their long list of misery:
The Shot. The Drive. The Fumble. And now:
The Angry Dimwit.
Dan Gilbert, take a bow.
The Prince of South Beach.
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