I blame my father, a northern
Ohioan, born and raised. I was his first and only son coming into the world.
What better way to celebrate the day of my birth than to be in the hospital
cafeteria watching the Indians game? This is the first sign that I am doomed.
The intense thunderstorms and raging tornado sirens going off in the distance
in Sandusky, Ohio that night should have warned him that what he was doing was
not right.
This was 1993, a year of no
significance to a Cleveland fan, except a third, fourth, and sixth place finish
by our beloved teams. What was going through my father’s mind as he watches his
beloved Indians during my birth? He definitely knows about the curses. I’ve
heard about them repeatedly for 18 years by himself, his friends, and the
worst… the media. Even though I wasn’t around for the Drive, the Fumble, the
Shot, the Catch, Red-Right 88, or the Trade, (keep in mind, as this is being
typed I am reaching for the tissue box), I know all about them, through deep,
tear-jerking story sessions with suffering family members. It upsets me, because
like them, I am a victim.
I like to call myself a “lucky”
Cleveland fan, if there is such thing. My young mind brings no memory of the
90’s tragedies. The offensive powerhouse ’95 and ’97 Indians collapses are only
recollected through video. I’ve seen Game Seven - Jose Mesa, Edgar Renteria. We
all know. What about Art Modell moving the Browns from our great city? I was
just a 2 year old playing with a nerf football. I do remember their return,
even though I’d rather not. I Watched Tim Couch and Chris Palmer lead our
Brownies to a hopeless 2 and 14 debut. And the Cavs? I would have no knowledge
of their existence until some kidf rom Akron jumped into the picture.
My personal stories about these
teams would do nothing for someone reading this. It is the same song on repeat
since 1964. It wouldn’t matter that I was there for Game Four of the 2007 NBA
Finals in the very last row of Quicken Loans Arena with my Dad. It makes no
difference that I saw the LeBron James-led Cavs get swept in their first Finals
appearance. What would it do for you to know that I witnessed the collapse of
an Indians team that took a 3 to 1 series lead into Boston with the Cy Young
winner on the mound, lose the series 4 to 3? We get it. Everybody gets it.
Cleveland has the worst luck for a sports city in America. Hell, even the
Detroit Lions managed to make the playoffs.
People say “It’s just a game”.
“It’s only sports. There is a real world out there”. Every time I hear that I
disagree. I am 18 years old. I’ve taken lessons from watching and playing
sports that will shape me into the man that I will become in the future. Being
a fan of Cleveland sports puts life in adifferent perspective. It teaches you
that like our city, you need to be tough. You need to work hard. You need to do
things the RIGHT way. You will get knocked down, many times. You don’t lay
there and give up. You don’t quit. You get back up and fight. You don’t take
the easy way out. Like ditching your hometown to go play with your buddies on
the beach, or completely tearing the heart out of our city by moving the entire
team. I know what it takes to succeed. I know that like sports, life goes on.
But what I also know is, once it is our time, when a TEAM comes together and
wins the right way, it will be worth the suffering. It is worth going to Opening
Day every year with my dad, with hopes of this being the year, or sitting in
front of the television at 1:00 on Sunday afternoons in the fall thinking
maybe, this will be the year the Browns can compete for the playoffs. I know
damn well that when I have a child, they will be a Cleveland fan. Call me
crazy, but I want my kids to take the lessons from sports that they taught me.
So yes, I do blame my father for making me a Cleveland fan. But what I should
be doing, is thanking him.
- E