Originally appeared June 19, 2016, on my Facebook feed.
My dad was a high school basketball coach for as long as I can remember. And he was a Cleveland Cavaliers fan, also for as long as I can remember.
When I was a kid in the 1970s, he’d take his players up to the Richfield Coliseum to see Cleveland play, and a couple of times, he took me along. Back then, I was more excited about riding a bus and staying up late, but it was thrilling to see a real pro game, even if the Cavs weren’t that great.
Years later, Dad bought season tickets and went to virtually every home game, even though (a) the trip from Niles to Cleveland was a long one (they had abandoned the closer Coliseum), (b) the seats weren’t great, and (b) the team was worse. But Dad was a loyal fan, and I have fond memories of going to some of those games, even if I don’t have specific memories of the games themselves. More than anything, it was fun watching my dad in his element. And, admittedly, there were some solid teams back then, with guys like Mark Price and Craig Ehlo leading us up to the brink of victory, only to have cruel, cruel fate pull the rug out from under us. (Believe me, it’s no fun spending your entire adult life watching that clip of Michael Jordan making a last-second, game-saving shot against your team.)
My dad died in 1999, before either the first or second Lebron James Era. That means he didn’t get to experience the elation when the Cavs won the crucial draft pick that acquired Lebron or the crushing disappointment when, a few years later, Lebron made “The Decision” and headed south to Miami. Or, for that matter, the sense of possibility when Lebron returned. It was only a sense, of course, because when you’re a fan of Cleveland sports, you completely expect the aforementioned cruel, cruel fate to step in and yank that rug once again.
Which brings us to tonight’s game. The final game of the NBA Finals. As internet pundits constantly reminded us, the Cavs were (a) facing Golden State, a team that had set a regular season record (b) on Golden State’s home court and (c) attempting a comeback from a 1-3 deficit, which had never resulted in a championship. Never.
And that’s why, even with 10 seconds to go and the Cavs four points up, I was sure that when Lebron went down on that wrist that somehow, someway, Golden State was going to pull out a victory. Why wouldn’t they? Cleveland hadn’t won a championship – any championship — since the Browns won a pre-Super Bowl title back in 1964, three years before I was born.
But somehow, against all odds, against cruel fate, even against the universe’s unrelenting hatred of Cleveland sports teams, they did it. They really did it. They won. There’s no waiting for next year, there’s no watching the other team celebrate. This time, my team won. Finally.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a sports fan, but I do love the Cavaliers, and I’m a boy who grew up in northeastern Ohio, so I know what this means to the fans, the team and the people who live there.
But more than that, I know what it would have meant to my dad. Happy Father’s Day.