“Dear Father,
I hope everything is going well for you in Croatia, because things are certainly not going very well here in America. The Nets will have a poor record again this year. I may accumulate good individual statistics, but you know me, father; I can never be content with personal success when the team’s success does not follow.
But there is an anxiety weighing on my mind which is heavier than the Nets’ imminent failure. This larger anxiety has to do with my hair. Or, more accurately, my lack of hair.
Father, a new follicle seems to fall out every few minutes! The top of my head is clearly visible through the thinning brown strands. I urgently require some Croatian folk remedies to be mailed to America at your earliest possible convenience. Whatever traditional cream or paste your grandfather used, and I know he used it, you must send me a large quantity of it so I can begin applying it to my scalp before it is too late.
When I see Luis Scola sitting on the bench, ten years my senior but with the shiny, strong hair of a twenty-year-old woman, I become envious. His family was never cursed by vagrant gypsies as ours was. They do not even have to deal with the Roma plague down in Argentina, where he is from.
I hope this letter finds you well, because it certainly wasn’t written by somebody who is well at all.
Sincerely,
Your dearest son, Bojan.”