A FAIR-WEATHER FAN SPEAKS OUT
How easy it is for us Browns die-hards to forget that neglected sub-species of zealot: the fair weather fan.
Scorned and tormented, the fair weather fan ducks for cover when found out, and then makes radical claims of fandom which, while not proveably false, sound weak and pathetic.
I will not hide or attempt to hide in the crowd of fans, trying to mingle among the true believers. I cannot, in good faith, pretend to be what I am not.
I am… gulp… a fair-weather Cleveland Cavaliers fan.
There, I said it.
I love playing basketball, but have never played in organized basketball at a high enough level for me to have learned much about it. I didn’t play organized basketball after about the ninth grade, which is a good thing, I guess. I’ve been told my best move is something called a “premeditated hack”, whatever that is. I do have a nice 1.5” vertical leap, though.
Frankly, I find NBA basketball to be pretty boring, although the game I’ve been watching this past week seems to be much improved over the product from just a few years ago. I’m seeing more defense than in years past, and the top athletes in the game seem to be much more complete players than I remember. Lebron James actually passes the ball and plays what appears to be some decent defense. Imagine that.
A major reason that I find it boring, I guess, is that I have no real appreciation for the strategies and different types of defenses employed today. There is a lot about the sport I simply don’t “get”, which limits my appreciation for it.
I couldn’t tell you where the passing lanes are at a given moment. A pick-and-roll sounds like something Eric Clapton would be involved with. To me, it’s still just a bunch of freakishly tall guys running around and randomly getting called for fouls, which they never seem to admit to committing.
Generally, it seems they run back and forth for a while, and then things become kind of important in the last two minutes.
Another reason I’ve never been a basketball fan is that I had a hard time dealing with the Michael Jordan as God era.
I couldn’t freaking stand Michael Jordan. Yeah, the bald-headed knob was an all-time great, whatever. To me, he was just another twit who chose my hometown team to be the one against whom he would make a freakishly fortunate shot that would be remembered forever. He belongs with John Elway, Terry Bradshaw, and whatever mercenaries were on the Florida Marlins back in 1997. Pfffft. I didn’t deal well with that era, and the years which followed weren’t particularly good ones for Cleveland-area basketball fans.
What we’ve seen here this last week in Cleveland has been pretty amazing, however. It’s always been the other town that has the superstar player in my lifetime, not Cleveland. It might take some getting used to. At the same time, it might make an NBA fan of me yet. I guess I better pick up that “Hoops for Dumbasses” book down at the Barnes and Noble.
MAMMA MIA, MAMMA MIA
For Mothers Day, my kids gave* my wife a gift certificate to the above-mentioned bookstore, which has a nice big place of business in my area. She enjoys heading down there and browsing the book aisles and getting some peace and quiet away from the kids, dog, and bufoonish husband.
Last week, she came back with a Queen Greatest Hits CD. We played it going back and forth to the restaurant where we had her Mother’s Day dinner, and my kids instantly glommed onto it, even though none of them had heard of Freddie Mercury and crew before that. I’ve been hearing “Bohemian Rhapsody”, “Fat Bottomed Girls”, and the rest of their greatest hits collection over and over for the past few days.
I hadn’t listened to the band, by choice, anyway, in twenty years or more. Upon listening to them again, I was amazed at how cheesy a lot of the songs are. “Bicycle”, for example, with the break where little ringing bicycle bells are played solo for a bit, is hard to listen to without a little snobbish snickering. A lot of it is silly, but undeniably fun.
But, holy crap, that stuff gets into your brain and you can’t get it out. The late singer’s voice is still banging around my head. Mamma mia, mamma mia, let me go.
* This “giving of gifts”, technically, is more of a process involving extracting cash from Dad and then demanding chauffer service to shopping malls, where I’m asked what Mom wants. Don’t let her know.
WEBDORKIAN DESPERATION METRICS
Queue of Emails Needing Attention: 219
Unread RSS Feeds: 8,006
Tasks on To-Do List: 35
Caffeine Saturation: Abysmal
Windowblinds shell: Vista rip
Mood: “Out of my frigging head! Out!”
Listening to: Nine Inch Nails, to sandblast Queen out of my skull