In the living room, the TV broadcasts Cleveland Cavaliers at Golden State Warriors 2018 NBA Finals, Game 1. As far as I can tell, literally no one alive has given the Cavaliers a chance to win the best-of-seven series, and many predict a clean sweep. As a long-time Cleveland sports fan, I’m used to the heartbreak. In fact, I’m not even watching. I’m hanging out with my daughter in her room watching YouTube videos, while my son and husband cheer and groan against the grain of the exuberant Golden State home crowd piping through the speakers.
As time goes on, I notice I’m hearing a good bit of cheering from the guys, and much less-than-anticipated groaning. So I get lured in. Nearly halftime – and tied! That’s a moral victory. Okay, let’s watch this thing!
It’s a nail biter the next two quarters. My heart starts racing. There is hope! James is playing lights out. (He’ll end the game with 51 points.) We’re cheering every Cavs advance and bemoaning every setback. It’s getting pretty darn loud in da house. The score is going back and forth. The Cavs shouldn’t be hanging with the collectively deeper and more talented Warriors, but they are! Throwing caution to the wind, I start to believe.
Then the ol’ Cleveland curse starts seeping in. Bad breaks by the refs – VERY bad – at pivotal moments down the stretch really change the momentum of the game. My daddy always said it’s all fixed anyway, and this feels purposeful. It feels one-sided. It feels unfair. I’m getting mad. VERY mad.
Long story short, the Cavs lose in overtime. Another heartbreaker. At the end of that two hours’ investment of my life, I feel cheated, defeated, sad, and disgusted. Seeing the Warriors and their fans cheering, I want their smiles wiped off their ugly faces. Now mind you, they aren’t actually ugly! They are ordinary people who, taken as a whole, I’m sure are perfectly lovely folks. My rational brain knows this. They have every right to be happy and cheer. But, man, do I really dislike them in this moment! There is something ugly in the room, and it’s within myself.
That’s when I knew. Sports and I had to break up. This relationship had become toxic. I didn’t like feeling or acting this way. I mean, I’m in my 40s! Time to be a better person. The person I want to be reads more; writes more; works out, well, at all – things I never seem to have enough time to do. So, perfect. I’m breaking up with Sports to hook up with My Best Self. I’m so okay with this decision. I’m perfectly at peace.
Fast forward two days. It’s the morning of Game 2. I have big plans for gametime. Instead of working myself into a tizzy over grown men I don’t know fighting over a ball, I’m going to write my FIRST EVER blog about turning 40, looking forward not back, experiencing life anew every day, and living your Best Self, blah, blah, blah. (No, it would’ve been good, I promise.)
Then I think of one person who will be watching: my son. He’s a 16-year-old nearly-man, three days shy of completing his junior year in high school. He grew up on the Cleveland Browns, the Cleveland Cavaliers, the Columbus Bluejackets, and The Ohio State University everything. He gets it honest, and will most definitely be watching.
He mentions, “Game 2 is on tonight.”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to watch. I just get too frustrated. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t watch just for my sake. I want you to do what’s best for you.” He genuinely means it. Be still my heart.
How much longer do I have him at home? One year for sure, God willing. After that? College is the plan, a really good plan. The fact is he may leave for college, and just never return except for visits. Who knows? How many more casual moments do we have, just hanging out? And the thing is he actually likes my company during the games. I mean it’s not like he can’t do without me, but my presence while watching sports together doesn’t embarrass him or make him cringe. When your child is a teen, that’s a parenting win! When our team does well, we cheer, together. When they don’t, we gripe, together. He hadn’t heard about the breakup yet. My resolve starts to waiver.
Later that evening, I say, “You know, I am going to watch the game after all. I’m ready to give up on sports, but I’m not ready to give up on you.”
“Aw, thanks, Mom.” It could just be my wishful thinking, but he seems pleased.
Fast forward. It’s halftime, Game 2. My Cavs are losing… by quite a bit. It’s a gut punch. My son is simultaneously checking his phone and watching the game over glitchy reception (#nocablehousehold) and holding out hope against the odds that his team just might pull it off. We talk about the glitchy reception. He moves the antennae here, then there, then back again. Reception stays the same – barely good enough to watch without going completely nuts. We chuckle. We talk about the game – it’s frustrating! They’re hanging in there, but still down six. “They just can’t break loose!”
Out of nowhere, a cheer! “Yeahhh, Kevin Love! He just made a three!” We celebrate.
Will he remember that I was here for Game 2? Eh, maybe not. Will he remember on the collective that I was here, for him? I sure hope so. Right now, I’m soaking this in. Because a year goes by so fast. And I want to remember.
Update: The Cavs don’t win the game. I don’t get upset. I shared time and space with my family, and I wrote my FIRST EVER blog. I never expected it to be about sports, of all things. But it fits. There’s a major transition looming that many 40-somethings face for the first time: the senior year and graduation of a child. In my case, that child happens to like sports. A lot. Watching the game together is like experiencing a part of who he is. That is the treasure.
