A sports fan's watershed

By Joel Hammond
210 west Writer [send email]

I, just like the other sports writers you're reading on this site, am a big fan of ESPN Page 2's Bill Simmons. The Sports Guy, as he so affectionately refers to himself.

So, I like to take after him. A few months ago, I delved into his
mindless ramblings routine and was pleased with the results.

This time, I thought I'd try my hand at his "There is one moment that defines my career as a sports fan" bit. His, however, is more a coming of age, he says, watching Larry Bird come into his own as a member of the Boston Celtics.

Mine, though, is absolutely a moment. One moment in time that, over the years of looking back and crying over this one moment, that my fate as a sports fan was sealed: It will never happen for my teams (despite Green Bay downing the Pats in New Orleans, single-handedly the greatest night of my life ... but that's another column).

Let me set the stage. It's May 7, 1989. My dad works for Little Debbie (the No. 1 snack cake in America, mind you), and he used to load his truck on Sundays. So here I am, just a shade past seven, a die-hard Cavs fan. I loved Mark Price, Larry Nance, Brad Daugherty and even Craig freakin' Ehlo.

So we had game 5 of the first round of the Eastern Conference playoffs on the truck radio, and my brother, Pops and I are sweating our tails off putting the cases of Little Debbies on his truck, praying this might be the Cavs' year.

After all, they staved off elimination in game 4, winning by three in OT. We had a feeling. This was their year.

So it's getting late in the game, and we're done with the truck, but we're not leaving. We're staying right here, because if something happened on the way home and we didn't get to hear the Cavs finally knock off Michael Jordan, we're going to be pissed.

Late in the game. Cavs leading. Up one, less than two seconds left, and my moment occurs: "The inbounds pass comes to Jordan. Here's Michael at the foul line, a shot on Ehlo ... GOOD! The Bulls win! They win!" The Chicago announcers were ecstatic.

I was not. I vaguely remember saying simply to my brother, also a die-harder, "They lost." I staggered out of the truck, and got in the back of our '84 Cavalier station wagon. I didn't even want to fight with Bruce for the front seat. I didn't care.

And so my fate as a fan was set. Jordan had done it again, and not only did the Cavs lose, the play became one of the most shown highlights of a storied Jordan career. Every time I saw it, I had to watch that piece of shit Brad Sellers run over and hug him. Ugh.

The Cavs finished 17 out the next season. Twenty-eight the next. They haven't made the playoffs in he last five years.

This past year, tanking or not, they were off-the-charts horrific. I remember many a night screaming at my television to play some defense. Or at least take Milt Palacio off the court.

Which makes the Cavs' latest fortune -- read: Landing LeBron James -- so difficult to take.

Because I know, no matter how hard he tries, and no matter how savvy he is on and off the court, that this franchise, under the direction of a *&%&-ing moron named Jim Paxson, cannot win.

Unless, of course, a miracle happens.

"The inbounds pass comes into James. Here's LeBron at the foul line, a shot over Kobe...

"GOOD! The Cavs win!"

I can almost taste it.