Why I Suck: An Open Letter From Anderson Varejao

I understand that I am a worthless basketball player, devoid of any sort of offensive skill or defensive talent. I also understand that I deplete joy and cohesion from the sport for my very being on the court. I am aware that my game depends solely on preferential treatment from a set of officials that less than adequate. I am cognizant of the fact that I cannot and will not appear on the court without hurling myself to the floor like a prostitute with tourrette's syndrome. I get it. See, the thing is, I just suck. That's it. I cannot play the game of basketball, simple and plain. I was blessed with an enourmously tall frame and the only thing that I can show for it in my country of Brazil is to play basketball. See where I live, we are known for our futbol players, not our basketball players. In order to maintain some sort of diginity and display some sort of pride for my homeland, I must play in a way that destroys the very being of the game James Naismith created in the musty Princeton gyms back in the days. I must flop, and I apologize.

I bring this up because in the midst of my glorious flights to the hardwood, I have noticed the magnificent talents of my opponent, Antawn Jamison. Instead of playing as if he were a teetering jenga statue, as I tend to do on a regular basis, Antawn Jamison has played with the heart of an assassin bug from the Brazillain rainforest, looking to devour any remaining defender. My only choice in the matter of playing defense against this prodigious talent is to react in the same vein as a reversing mousetrap, and make sure my bouncy curls cushion my head from the thunderous clap of my fall. That is the only way I can stop this master from continuing to bewhilder us with his floaters, runners, jumpshots and thunderous dunk. In the third quarter of a game we managed to escape from as if it were a favela overrun by Lil Ze's henchmen on Saturday, Senor 'tawn was spectacular, running, jumping, twisting, turning, and scoring. It was much less me faking like I was fouled by Jamison as it was me fainting at the glory that was his two-dribble drive to the hoop.

Therefore, I would like to apologize to you all. Instead of living in a tropical paradise, I am trapped in the vapid, sweltering industrial outpost called Cleveland, where blue collar values are overrun by the desire for methamphetimes and sexually curious quarterbacks. I know that my only escape is to fake death, cheat rules, to flop.

-Anderson Varejao, Forward, Cleveland Cavaliers.