Bill Simmons writes Vince Carter's letter to Toronto


Here's the deal. As I admitted a few weeks ago, I stopped trying in Toronto. Looking back, a number of things were at fault. First, the $94 million contract the Raptors gave me after my 2001 playoff duel with Allen Iverson. NBA contracts are, of course, guaranteed, so no matter how poorly I played, my huge check was going to arrive every two weeks. I mean, what would you do?

I stopped driving to the basket because, frankly, I didn't like getting knocked down. Once I started settling for jumpers I became easier to defend than Tommy Heinsohn in an old-timers' game, and players and coaches started to whisper that I was soft, that I was the biggest baby in the league. But, I swear, I suffered a bunch of nagging injuries, not to mention various allergies (to defense and rebounding). Within three years, we were back in the lottery. And everyone blamed me.

Read the whole thing. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, it's funny because it's true.

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