Congratulations, first of all, to the Golden State Warriors and their long-suffering fans. Being a good loser takes many years of practice. Being a great loser takes 50 fucking years and more.
The good loser understands that the best team always wins. Always.
The great loser refrains from mentioning injuries, luck—good or bad—shabby officiating, or the last-second shot that would've won Game One had it not bounced out. Had it not bounced out, a great loser would never go on to say, if it had hit the far rim and dropped through the twine, there would've been no overtime and, perhaps, no Kyrie Irving fractured kneecap, in which case a great loser would still be in Cleveland, so as not to miss the parade.
***
Many Cleveland fans believe their teams are cursed. Not me. Haunted, yes, and not just the teams. Downtown was a place of broad avenues and grand buildings and arcades. The fucking Rockefellers called the city home, and it had a middle class. Now it's a hardscrabble place at its shrunken core. Public Square feels and smells like a bus terminal, and places like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and a new casino in an old department store, not to mention the skyboxed palaces of pro sport add little—if anything—to the quality of the lives actually lived by families who live within the city limits, who send their kids to city schools, and who depend on Cleveland for service and protection.
I'm free to embrace the LeBron narrative, even in the wake of a Finals loss, and feel enriched and ennobled as a fan. I'm free to fly in on the morning of Game 6 with a ticket that cost a grand, and eat a great lunch, and hit the casino pre-game, and fly out the next morning—all while suffering like a die-hard Cleveland fan. Meanwhile, my city is full of people living hard and dying young no matter what's going on with those teams.
The best part of the LeBron narrative is real: His homecoming made a difference beyond basketball. Part of that is economic, including his foundation; part of it is spiritual, because he is both a native son and the first Cleveland pro athlete since Jim Brown to transcend his sport. Brown still does. And 50 years from now, so will LeBron James. The Cavs lost, yeah. And as they did, LeBron climbed further into myth.
Times have changed—my, what Nike might've done with JB—but there was a scene before Game 3 straight outta Homer, when James stood on the sidelines facing Jim Brown in his courtside seat and bowed to him, and Brown, who led the 1964 Cleveland Browns to the town's last title, clasped his own hands in godly gratitude.
"It was one of my greatest sports moments," Brown later told the press.
Mine, too.
