First off, I know you got offers out there Lebron: big offers with currency so strange I couldn't even guess the historical person on it: Taft? Coolidge? But to that I say: money is a tool to be used, not an ends. Money is like a wrench, a gold flake encrusted wrench that you could buy by the millions, so let's get deeper than that here.
My team currently consists of myself and my old college roommate Bowman. I used to be a fairly decent ball player, before I gained that after-college 100. I literally gained 100 pounds. Now I mostly waddle. I can still post up, I can still shoot a hook shot, but we're going to need to limit my play to half the court. I can do offense or defense, but not both. With that caveat, the only other player you'd be sharing the ball with would be Bowman, who is a redneck revisionist whose main love is tiny-scale models of the A-Team van and Civil War history. Sure, we are red state people but we are color-blind and progressive. Literally color blind, Bowman has to memorize the order of stop-lights when he gets to a new town, so we'll have to make sure that we pick jersey colors that are neither red nor green or it will get one sided awfully quick.
Bowman only shoots three pointers, whether guarded or not, so you never have to worry about touches as long as you don't give that idiot the ball. Bowman will take the three though, and is not afraid to do so--even on the bench, so don't hand the ball over unless you want to see an atrocious shot-form of a 6 year old child from some distant country who has never heard of basketball. Bowman also married the woman I love, by the way. So if the tournament doesn't go well, we could always take Bowman out to Inc's lake on one of those high ledges, drink a lot, and then ask him to reenact the Battle of Gettysburg for us. Whatever happens…happens.
I'm having a hard time drumming up a situation where you would be more depended upon and lauded by a team than my current Bowman/my fatself combo.
And you want to talk championships? There are two seasons a year, and mostly they're won by old men who are really well organized. And by that I just mean they show up consistently. I've been on teams where we have had to recruit from the crowd, but not with you sir.
Some of the old men do play dirty, I must warn you, but their dirty play may not have an impact on you. I've been elbowed to the throat, pulled by the groin, and kneed in the armpits after being shoved down, but that's because I'm a mere man. If one of these geezers tried such a travesty on you, their bones would shatter on impact, and if not you could rip their old man legs off and club them down. Your choice.
I've even drawn up a play for us, as a sort of enticement, a taster if you will of the soul-purification we'll produce on the hardwood: First, I hand the ball in and you catch it, then I take two steps in-bounds and then watch you go down the court while old white men bounce off of you in violent ways. Then, Bowman will be standing on the wing but will be mostly concerned about Marissa's behavior in the stands. He will begin wondering to himself in an introspective way why Marissa is so focused on what's behind him, i.e. my sexy calf muscles, then you cross over OWG #4, sprint towards the basket, alley-oop it to yourself and slam-a-jamma, we win the game and Bowman is possibly suicidal. We share some granola and you give me insight on what it's like to be successful. The perfect day for the perfect team.
And so with that, I'm throwing in my hat for this summer's free agency madness. And after that stuff you pulled on Coach Brown, please stay the Cleveland away from my Spurs, thank you.