As the final minutes ticked away in last Sunday's Game 7 of the NBA Finals, a Cleveland Cavaliers victory must've looked certain to just about everyone watching.
The score stood at 92-89 with 10.6 seconds remaining. I sat as a longtime Cleveland sports fan with fists clenched and explained to my son how the Golden State Warriors could — no, would — still win.
“Steph Curry will hit a three, and the Cavs have to inbound the ball. They have no timeouts left,” I said. “They’ll turn it over, and the Warriors will hit a last-second shot.”
I simply couldn’t let myself believe what by then was going to happen: For the first time in 52 years, one of MY teams was going to win the championship.
But it happened.
And I was completely confused about how to react.
My son hugged me. My wife and daughters joined us and hugged me. (They, of course, were watching the game in the other room because we early in the series figured out that when all five of us watched together the Cavs lost. We changed our lineup, and it worked. I believe that had more impact on the series than Draymond Green’s suspension for Game 5.)
I wandered in disbelief for the next day or so, spending lots of time on the phone with my siblings and old Cleveland friends running back over the game and series.
But deep down, I was still struggling with exactly how I felt.
Then my son and I had a big decision to make: Should we make the pilgrimage to Cleveland for the championship parade and celebration?
He was a big part of this. At 15 he was a devoted Cavs fans when LeBron James’ televised “The Decision” humiliated all Cleveland fans. I tried to help him understand that anyone has a right to choose where they work. He reacted by throwing out all of his LeBron souvenirs. I was proud of him.
I even recounted our disappointment in what James had done in a conversation I had with then-NBA commissioner David Stern during one of his visits to Atlanta. He reasonably and politely urged me to get over it, and enjoy pro basketball again.
That was easy to do once James returned with a promise to bring a championship to Cleveland.
My friends, and son, now 21, urged me to go to the parade. I hesitated too long to go by plane, and they believed I was hung up on the logistics of such a long trip in such a short time. Or the cost. Or where to stay. All of which were important.
But I was hung up on how it would be, and whether I could shake this lingering and unsettling feeling of disbelief or confusion, or whatever it was, and truly enjoy this moment by returning to a place I hadn’t lived for more than 30 years.
I normally hate huge crowds and long lines, but the scene in downtown Cleveland energized me and everyone there. As I told someone: You had to be there.
People were full of joy, not competing but helping each other find a better spot to view the parade, holding up kids to get a better view. One friend brought water and snacks, and shared it all around, even with people she didn’t know.
The mismanagement of the parade, which seemed to begin at least two hours behind schedule, brought out the best in people.
After all, said one, Cleveland doesn’t have a lot of experience at championship parades; we’ll get better.
I heard older fans urge younger ones to enjoy the moment because this might never happen again.
And that’s when I understood why I’d been unsure how to enjoy all this.
Sports occupy such an important part of our culture, and at times overwhelm it. Of course they distract us from our troubles and serve as over-used metaphors for nearly every aspect of the human condition. Sports give us stories to tell so we can better understand ourselves.
But mostly, at their best, sports unite us. They give us common ground and show how we’re more alike than different.
We imagine, mistakenly, that our joyous sports moments are the most important ones — such as when our team beats a hated rival. (Think, Ohio State-Michigan or Georgia-Georgia Tech.)
In fact, it’s our disappointment that binds us. After all, only one team wins the championship each year. The rest of us have a story of what could’ve been, or a tale of the horrendous loss, or rant about a bad call by the official.
And we cast a derisive glance at the winners, knowing deep down that they can’t possibly deserve that championship as much as we do.
It becomes a badge of honor to stick with your team, through the tough seasons and the years — or as in Cleveland’s case, decades — of disappointment. One of the things that gives me credibility among sports fans: the famous Cleveland Browns-Denver Broncos game that produced “The Drive.” I was there.
Sports disappointment provides a metaphor for life: We value friends and family who stick with us during tough times, and we all want to be known as someone who will do the same.
We love winning, but we know it’s losing that shows who really cares.
This championship and that trip to Cleveland forced me to let go of quite a badge of honor, and one I realize I took great pride in. My team hadn’t won for almost my whole life, but I stuck around. I liked telling that story, and it said something about me.
At East 9th Street and Euclid Avenue along the parade route, I exchanged stories with others, almost all of whom had one of heartbreak over a Cleveland team — and who came to the parade as a testament to their loyalty. But they also were part of those disappointments. Standing on a downtown corner with a million others, I realized what I'd gained because my team finally won. That day, filled with hugs and high-fives, just adds to a fan's story.
Kevin Riley is the Editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Contact him at kriley@ajc.com.
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