LeBron's Rebuttle: An Open Letter To Dan Gilbert

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LeBron's Rebuttle: An Open Letter To Dan Gilbert
Larry Busacca/Getty Images

Hey Dan.


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.


It stung.


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.


My bad.


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:




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 tried.


You failed.


I left.


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.



King James

The Prince of South Beach.

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