Friday, May 14, 2010


Can't even muster up the words for a serviceable post mortem this morning.

I'm that depressed.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

The Seventh Stage

So, it really happened. I see it for what it is now: a team that went out and came up short. It happens, even to the Cavs, a team that I still cheer for and will continue to cheer for.

Sometimes you gotta make lemonade out of situations in life. You gotta put lipstick on a pig. Dress up a corpse. Wait, I don’t think that last one fits. Anyway, point being, you just have to accept things as they are and look toward the future with hope and gratitude.

And so, I will be ready for Thursday’s game in Boston. I’m certain the Cavs are going to digest Tuesday’s devastating loss, regroup and then Bring It tomorrow. At least, that’s what I hope.

As for LeBron, yeah, I still hope he stays in Cleveland. I hope he’s not lured away by a bigger-city team that shall remain nameless. But all I can do is hope and accept what is.

The seventh stage of grief is…well, it just is.

Go Cavs.

The Sixth Stage

I’m so depressed.

The sixth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Fifth Stage

Fucking hell.

Are you kidding me, LeBron? Are you flippin’ kidding me? With your piss-poor performance, your lackadaisical lumbering up and down the court, your ineffectual bullshit in and outside the paint? Are you fucking kidding me?!

And you, Mo, what the fuck?! What are you even doing out there? Shaq scores more points than you! Christ, my three-and-a-half year old niece could score more! My dog could! You bring the ball down the court just fine, but then you get close to the basket and come down with a case of “Oh-my-flippin’-lord-what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now?-Just-get-rid-of-it!-Just-get-rid-of-it!” and throw the ball away like it’s diseased. You’re not playing a game of hot potato, Mo. Set up a play. At the very least, pass the ball to someone else who can make the shot.

Oh wait, there’s no one to pass to! That’s right, because no one can make the shots!

As for you, Coach Brown, you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! What did you say to the team at half time? Did you read nursery rhymes? Make everyone some warm milk to drink? Because you inspired a bunch of alleged professional basketball players to head out to the court and sleepwalk their way through the second half. Bang up job, Mike.

You know what, LeBron? Just leave. Don’t even show up in Boston. We all know you’re outta here—that’s exactly how you play. You want to come to New York, you traitorous ego-saurus? Fine. Leave all the comforts of home. Leave your hometown. Leave a city who loves you. But remember, the Knicks suck and they will still suck when you come. At some point, the big city lights will stop dazzling you and you’ll be saddled with the albatross that is the Knicks. Still sucking.

A pox on you all!

The fifth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Fourth Stage

Jesus, it’s because I didn’t wash the jerseys.

The Cavs lost because I didn’t wash the jerseys. Oh my God. I said I was going to wash them and then I didn’t, and husband and I sat there wearing those jerseys, with loss and defeat just clinging to those polyester fibers, ruining any chance the Cavs had. I caused this. Oh my God, I feel horrible.

Christ, I also didn’t eat a powerbar last night, like I did during Friday’s legendary game. I tried to recreate everything…oh my God, I also didn’t keep the kitchen light on the entire game. Dear God. I can’t believe I did this.

The fourth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Third Stage

Oh, God, why couldn’t this have happened to me? Why couldn’t I have shouldered a career loss instead of the Cavs?

I’m a writer, for crying out loud—loss is my currency! I’m a veritable professional at rejection, wayward dreams and crushed hopes! I could have handled the career setback and then the Cavs could’ve gone on to win and then we’d be going to Boston and we’d win that one and it would be so happy, so joyous.

Why couldn’t it have been me?

The third stage of grief is the hardest.

The Second Stage

Last night’s loss couldn’t have happened! There’s no way LeBron mailed it in before setting foot on the floor. There’s no way the Cavs put up zero defense and a pitiful offense. There’s just no way. No way did this happen. Look at the Cavs’ regular season record! We have the league MVP on our team, for Pete's sake!

Ok, I just checked the sports section of The Times, which reported that the Celtics beat the Cavs. Roundly. But, I mean, c’mon, that’s The Times—a total rag of a paper. Can’t trust anything that the Gray Lady says. Really.

Well, looks like The Plain Dealer is reporting the same thing. It’s impossible. No way did the Cavs douse the hopes and dreams of every Clevelander like a bunch of inept boy scouts who threw water on the cozy campfire of victory. No way did I just use that metaphor. This can’t be happening.

The second stage of grief is the hardest.

The First Stage

I don’t know what to say this morning, the darkest of dark mornings, except that I’m in shock, wrapped up in a thick cocoon of disbelief.

That didn’t really happen last night, did it? The Cavs didn’t get spanked in spectacular fashion on their home court last night—did they? LeBron didn’t check out moments after tipoff, did he? Mo Williams didn’t miss shot after shot, right?

Tell me LeBron didn’t just play his last game as a Cavalier, giving a performance that was painfully...cavalier.

The first step of grief is the hardest.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

We Are All Witnesses

I don’t know if I should even be writing about this—we’re in a precarious situation here and who knows what’s going to tilt the scales one way or another. Wearing the jersey? Husband wearing the jersey? Pup donning his team wear? What will allow LeBron & Co. to win tonight? Because, obviously, what two adults and a puppy wear in New York City is going to control the outcome of tonight’s game against Rondo—I mean, the Celtics.

If this seems odd to you, a bit insane, then you’re not from Cleveland. You didn’t grow up with the constant hanging-in-the-balance feeling that whatever you ate or wore, whoever you talked to and when you talked to them, would have some bearing on whether your professional sports team won or lost. There have been games where I wouldn’t answer the phone for fear that it would be someone from home, thereby jinxing a win. This, of course, became an issue at times when I was sure not talking to anyone from Cleveland would secure a win and my mom (in Cleveland) was certain that she needed to touch base with me and my sister in order for our team to win. It all gets very complicated, you see.

Which is why I’m dithering about this morning (game time is at 8 p.m., no time to waste), pacing to and fro, wondering what we should be wearing (and when—you don’t always start the game with the jersey on…sometimes you need something to turn to if things go badly) and what we should be eating.

There’s also the tricky matter of trying to recreate an entire mood from a previous win. Take, for example, Friday’s game: utter Cavs perfection, right? Well, husband wasn’t home for the first half of the game. So does that mean I need to banish him from the apartment for the first half to ensure the Cavs win? I can’t do that to my husband, who knew full well that the “for better or for worse” portion of our vows included being saddled with Cleveland sports teams. On the other hand, he’s a Mets fan, so maybe he’d understand…

I even considered including in this post a picture of us all decked out in our team gear during last year’s playoffs. Of course, you know how that turned out (the series, not our outfits), so including such a picture today of all days would be tantamount to…you know what? I can’t even finish that sentence, because if I did, maybe that horrible thing would come true and I would have ruined everything for tonight's game!

Maybe I need to buy new shirts. I mean, the Cavs can’t possibly be expected to win with us wearing team jerseys purchased last year—the year they lost! Those things are expensive though, so that can’t be the answer. I think a good washing and drying will have to do. Along with some sort of spiritual cleansing involving incense and chanting. Possibly candles.

I’m going to post this so I can go watch Major League. Yeah, I know the movie is about an entirely different sport. Doesn’t matter—I’m trying everything today.