Dear Syracuse University Basketball Team,
I love you guys. No homo ““ but seriously. I want you. All of you. To be my friends.
We should hang out. I’m sure we have lots in common. For instance, I love the game of basketball. You guys seem like you enjoy it. We could take long strolls on the quad and have profound discussions about the merits of a 2-3 matchup zone versus a pressure man-to-man defense.
I would stare deep into your eyes and say things like, “Wes, Scoop, I think you guys are talented enough to match up man-to-man with anyone in the country.” Of course, you would roll your eyes at my child-like naivetÃ© and say something like “Thanks, Danny, but we think the zone D’ gives us the best chance to win. Now go get me a cupcake.” And I would blush. And then get you that cupcake.
I’m sure just about anyone in central New York would love to be your friend right now. They could probably offer you superficial things like money and fame, but do you really want to waste your time with anything less than true bro-love? I can’t bring you wealth, and I can’t make you any more famous than you already are, but what I bring to the table goes deeper than what you see on the surface.
Every morning I wake up under my Arinze Onuaku ““ sized comforter, slip off my limited edition Kris Joseph snuggie and Dome Ranger mask, hug the giant cardboard Wes Johnson head hanging from my dresser, lace up my replica, size 18 Rick Jackson Nikes, style my hair into a Jim Boeheim-like comb-over and kiss my life-size Veloci-Rautins poster before playing “Shut it Down” on my iPod seven times on my way to class.
Some people call that an “obsession.” I call it devotion.
They say things like “you need help” and “you should see a therapist.” I tell them they’re wrong, and that my old therapist was just a jealous Georgetown fan who wished fans like me wore Hoya gear.
They ask questions like, “Why is that jar of water on your desk labeled “Brandon Triche’s sweat?'” I slyly avoid the question, and then hide the jar in my cabinet full of Scoop Jardine’s wristbands.
You see, what they don’t understand is the attachment a true Syracuse fan feels toward his team. I’m not some Johnny-come-lately fair-weather fan who abandons ship when the storm clouds gather. I’m here for the long haul, whether you’re ranked in the top five or out of the top 50.
When you guys pwned Villanova, I felt your joy. When Pitt and Louisville got luckier than Edward Cullen at a sorority house and won at the dome, my heart broke right along with yours. When two of you were honored last night for senior night, I cried as if it were my own children about to play their last home game.
Anyway, I know you guys don’t feel the same way about me, and why should you? I can’t dunk a basketball or shoot a three-pointer, and I don’t have to duck every time I walk through a door. But I promise, if you give me the chance, I can contribute to the team with my charisma, leadership and physical low post game.
And if that’s not enough, I can always bring cupcakes.