The End.

"I guess you have to go through a lot of nightmares before you find your dream."
~LeBron James, after Game 6

----------

The end.

Of the series, of the seed, of the season, of the coach, of the good ol' days, of the era. The Cleveland Cavaliers of the last seven years have been forcibly folded, and every kid with a LeBron jersey or Varejao wig just completed his rite of passage into Cleveland fan adulthood.

----------

I was 12 years old in 1995. The best baseball team the town had seen since stadium sodas cost a nickel mowed through the regular season on the strength of their homegrown players, merrily bashing homer after homer, all the way up to the World Series. They lost, to a team with better pitching. That was when 12-year-old me learned the axiom, "Great defense beats great offense." I didn't get it. I was inconsolable, and I cried for hours.

The following December, I was at the final home game at old Cleveland Stadium. The Browns had largely stunk for most of my memory, but when I saw the fires in the Dawg Pound, the effigies of Art Modell hanging from nooses and on skewers, the rows of seats being ripped out, I was inconsolable, and I cried for hours.

In 1997, the boys of summer once again were teetering on the edge of glory. I seem to remember that it was exactly midnight when Jose Mesa allowed the tying run, and I could barely keep my eyes open as the deciding base hit bounced over Charley Nagy's straining arm. I was inconsolable, and I cried for hours.

----------

I was a little crybaby back then. Ask anyone, it's true; it didn't take much adversity to set my younger self to tears. Now here I am, all grown up, and I have tears in my beard, phlegm in my moustache, bleary red eyes behind my glasses. The feeling is all too familiar, and yet it's worse now than it ever was before.

We were supposed to win.

We had the best player, maybe ever. We were the team everyone was gunning for, the team that had expectations. We glutted our payroll, we played through injuries, we did everything a championship team was supposed to do...until we didn't. Our best player had a couple bad nights. We got out-coached and out-hustled. Older players found a fountain of youth, and an old nemesis had the last laugh. It was, in nearly every way possible, the most painful end imaginable to the season of our greatest hope.

My throat hurts from shouting at the TV. My forehead hurts from slapping it over and over. Right now, I don't want to see a basketball again for a long time. I don't want to watch the rest of the playoff; I don't even want to accidentally catch a part of a game at a bar. But, in the end, this story isn't about basketball. It's about faith. Hope. Pain. Adrenaline. And the briefest, fleeting glimpses of pure joy. All those things that make being a Cleveland fan so much like being a member of a congregation of true believers (you might call it a cult) are thrown into the sharpest relief, right now, at the moment of our greatest despair.
----------

The LeBron James era was (let's make peace with that past tense) the best time I've had watching sports of any kind, period. There are no adjectives left to describe his play that haven't already been used a dozen times, to better effect, by better writers than me. Every real sports fan appreciates a transcendent talent, but only a select few get to cheer for the very best in the game, night in and night out, for years on end. And it's the rarest thing of all to see a kid from the neighborhood carve his name into the stone alongside the greats, in front of his hometown supporters. That's what we got to see these past seven years.

Are any of these platitudes working for you? Is it all meaningless without that banner, without the chance to throw a handful of confetti at the conquering heroes, without finally seeing the eternal bridesmaid step to the altar? Congratulations, you're one of us. You watched a prodigy from Akron become the face of Cleveland. You lived and died with his team. You invested your hopes, your dreams, your money, your faith, part of your very being in the outcome of his ballgames. And now, his contract is up, and the last thing he heard from the home crowd was disbelieving, utterly disappointed booing. Job himself couldn't script it any better.

In a grotesque way, the Cavs' collapse lends a sort of symmetry to Cleveland sports misery: each of our franchises has found a unique way to break our hearts in the last 15 years. And yet, we'll be back. Oh yes, we'll be back in droves. The second the Browns show a glimmer of life (and probably even if they don't), you won't be able to sell an organ to get a ticket. When the next crop of Indians youngsters starts showing life, you'll dangle from the nosebleeds at Progressive field with peanuts and crackerjack. And when the Cavs organization picks up the pieces and starts pushing that rock back up the hill, you'll be there. I know I will.

Welcome to the club, brother. Support groups meet on Sundays afternoons in the fall and weekday evenings the rest of the year. See you at the game.

Game 5: The Worst Thing Ever.

That was the worst thing ever. That was a game that seems destined to join the Misery Montage alongside the other blindingly painful moments in the seemingly endless depths of Cleveland sports hell. Nothing worked. The best player in the game couldn't buy a bucket until the game was already out of reach. The opposition made every one of their open looks, effortlessly shredding every defensive scheme thrown at them. The amazing thing is, the Cavs actually led after the first quarter. They were up by eight at one point. And then--gone. Their lead and their will vanished in the blink of an eye, like a beard on a -- screw it, no beard joke here. My own hard-won hairs are quivering in fear that their time may come sooner than we expected.

Optimist Beard: It ain't over til it's over. That's the third blowout in this series, all by road teams. We still have the best player, who can start proving it regularly any time he's ready.

Pessimist Beard: ....I'm going to need a lot of shaving cream.

Game 5 Beard Reactions

Beardzilla: So, after writing a big steaming heap of words about free agency last night, I wish to rescind all of them. This game was like the first half of my worst nightmare, and I think we call all guess what the second half is.


Beard-a-tron: .... F. That is all.

New York City, Shave Your Beard In Shame

There are no sharks in Lake Erie. Neither are there sharks in the Hudson River, unless you count certain mob figures attached to cement shoes near the bottom. No, all the sharks on the isle of Manhattan live in cramped, unsanitary quarters, looking through the dirty glass at the distorted image of the outside world. Pity the lot of the NYC sports journalist, doomed to view everything through Spike Lee's Coke-bottle specs. A tap on their collective tank might draw their attention, but even then, they must see that image through the streaked, grimy tank. Even in captivity, though, one thing is common to all sharks: when they smell blood in the water, the feeding frenzy is on.

Oh, there's blood in the water, all right. The Cavs are two losses away from facing the day the entire city has dreaded since that fateful draft night that now seems so long ago. Zero hour. The end of the world as we know it. The Day That Must Not Be Named. And true to form, the predators sense that their time is near. Luckily for all of us serfs in the fly-over zone, we can read all about it on the redundant Four Letter Word New York; or, if you're one of those brave souls still clinging to physical media, in print, thanks to -- oh, let's just choose a random rag--New York Magazine. On the day after the Celtics equalized the series with the Cavs, both publications began the inevitable circling around you-know-who (around here, we call him the Bearded King). Of course, ESPN-NY and NYM are bad places to go looking for pick-me-ups as a Cavs fan. But here in the Big Apple, it's hard to escape the constant swirl of sensationalist garbage centered on the MVP. It all boils down to a simple statement of apparent fact, though. It's been shouted from the penthouses, whispered in the subway, hoarsely barked over the stock market din. You can hear the echoes all the way to Cleveland.

"The city of New York is entitled to LeBron James."

Faces on the train are blocked by 72-point back page sports headlines in the Daily News, which recently featured a subtly retouched photo of the MVP, clad in the Cavs blue-and-orange 80s throwback jersey, except with an identically-colored NEW YORK emblazoned across the chest. Spike Lee is publicly rooting for Celtics to pull off the upset so that he can begin courting the King in earnest, and he's not shy about who knows it. The same folks who pre-ordered their C.C. Sabathia Yankee jerseys even before he signed in New York already have a stash in their sock drawer, earmarked for a #6 James. Isn't that presumptuous? Isn't that just a little over-the-top? Of course not--haven't you heard? LeBron needs New York.

Which brings us to the latest and largest piece of entitlement media: the cover story of the aforementioned New York Magazine, trumpeting the headline, "Hey LeBron, Welcome to New York." It's a multiple-page layout of reasoning that must seem quite sound in the New York shark tank, with nuggets like "We've Got Cleveland Nightlife Beat" and "We'll Name A Sandwich After You." Seriously, those are the sections. I could spill quite a bit of virtual ink complaining about each morsel of trust-fund-baby logic, but my fingers would get tangled in my beard by the time I finished. Instead, let's just talk about one particularly lovely bullet point: "Our Superfans Make Your [Cleveland's] Superfans Look Sad."

To most of us, the term "superfan" conjures an image of a face-painted, often shirtless warthog of a man, flexing for the TV camera, index finger raised and shaking. Maybe a nosebleed section die-hard, still wearing a lovingly patched and resewn windbreaker from his younger days. We've certainly got ours in Cleveland, from the yahoos cheering through the lean times in the Dawg Pound, to the Wahoos still pounding the drum in the upper deck of Progressive Field. But, as is so often the case, we've all been grossly misinformed. A superfan, it turns out, is an immaculately coiffed celebrity, wearing sunglasses in a well-lit arena, enjoying their courtside view alongside others of their ilk, showing up for the big nationally televised game and then maybe once more in the playoffs. Per the article: noted hoop nuts Celine Dion, Dustin Hoffman and Hugh Jackman. Even the few true Knicks fans who haven't been priced out of the Garden yet must roll their eyes at that. Yes, LeBron, that's the kind of fan you need behind you. That's the kind of fan you want to celebrate a title with, the kind you want to wave to during the parade.

I just want it to stop. I want three to four weeks of radio silence so that the city of Cleveland can enjoy its best chance at a title in the entire lifetimes of most of its citizens. And when the season is over and the circus begins in earnest, all I want is this: a fair fight. I want it to be about basketball. I want it to be about winning. I will probably not get my wish.

Come and get it, sharks.

Game 3: A Cold Blast of Bearded Vengeance

There's a reason why we call him the Bearded King. When the hairs on his mighty chin bristle with the sort of avenging fury we saw tonight in Boston, it's best to simply stand aside and gape in awe. A pattern is beginning to emerge through the first two rounds: when the Cavs drop a game due to lack of effort or hustle, the Bearded King leads the team to a devastating rejoinder. The Bulls found out in Game 4 of that series, and now the Celtics have felt the searing wrath of the Cavs' bearded anger. The real test will be a second loss in the series; resilience, in the playoffs as well as in beard-growing, is perhaps just as important as consistency.

A special Playoff Beard pat on the back to two relatively beardless Cavs: Anthony Parker and coach Mike Brown. Containing Genetically Incapable during the first quarter allowed the team to essentially end the game by the midpoint of the second, and that was due in large part to Coach Beard's game plan and Parker's execution. If they can do it again in Game 4, the team could wrap this thing up in 5.

Game 3 Beard Reactions

Beardzilla: I'm on the West Coast at the moment, doing some preemptive scouting of the Lakers, and I gotta say, watching the game at 4 pm is pretty sweet. Better yet, the waiter at the bar was a Celtics fan, which made the blowout all the more enjoyable. Think we can get this L J hand sign to catch on? Yeah, me neither.

Game 2: Hear No Evil, See No Evil

Confession time, loyal bearded brethren: Beard-a-tron and Beardzilla have let you down. Yes, it's true, don't try to talk us out of our shame; oh, the ignominy! While our beloved Cavs were getting pasted on the their home court, we were out getting our own chunky, sluggish beards handed to us on the NYC hardwood. That's right, your fearless role models are also semi-professional basketball players, in much the same way that people fleeing stampeding rhinos are semi-professional sprinters. For what it's worth, our squad, aptly titled Playoff Beards, leads the league in ties.

We watched the first quarter, and as we left the Beard Cave, we felt confident that the home team would increase in feisty-ness eventually, as has been their wont all season. But, repeated Blackberry check-ins provided more and more discouraging news, which certainly affected our own performance on the court, which in turn surely damaged the karma back in Cleveland. For everyone who went to the game (especially the First Bearded Family) and fell victim to our malfeasance, we apologize. It'll probably only happen one or two more times, at the most.

Game 2 Beard Reactions

Beardzilla: See no evil. I can only say that this doesn't sound like it was pleasant to watch. Especially because Rasheed Wallace's pubic-hair beard appears to have regained some of its former evil.


Beard-a-tron: Hear no evil. If there's one thing that comforts me about this loss, it's that I didn't have to listen to Reggie Miller butcher the King's English while praising the Celtics. That would have been truly awful.

Round 2, Game 1

The images swirled and blurred in our custom-made bearded crystal ball. Would the wily old Green Men have enough left in their wily old tanks to give the Cavs some wily old problems? It looked that way at the outset, as Game 1 began murky and dark for the home team. Genetically Incapable gave the Cavs an uncomfortably close shave during the first half, only to be rebuffed by the re-emergence of the Cavs' prickly defensive stubble in the second. The Bearded King left no doubt as to whose beard will set the tone for this series, and with the help of a freakish burst of energy from Mo Williams' gently rippling scruff, Game 1 went to the good guys.

Game 1 Beard Reactions

Beardzilla: That's one. All praise to the Bearded King. All derision to Genetically Incapable. I urge the national media to start using these insightful, witty, original, completely useless monikers for the brilliant athlete they are intended to represent.


Beard-a-tron: Flash those goosies, Mo Williams! That dunk over Pierce should have been worth at least three, if not an old school MTV Rock-n-Jock 4-pointer.

Round 2: The Quickening.

Going into tonight's Round 2 tipoff, here are the predictions from the increasingly beard-surrounded mouths of the three-headed hydra that runs things around here:

Beardzilla: The Cavs' beards are clearly superior to the Celtics': from the patchy (Paul Pierce), to the dangly (KG), to the Brillo-ish (Rasheed Wallace), and the genetically incapable (Rajon Rondo), it's really no contest.

Beard-a-tron: I think LeBron and company will peak at the right time, just like my curernt beard; they will play together (but not too close) and will make sure to cover there chins. All and all I think in two weeks after this series with Boston we will all be looking toward the next round of the playoffs.

Philip Brightmore: "Lo, and the beard did grow. But it was sort of a lame beard, and the
womenfolk were not impressed."