After a lifetime of indifference to basketball, I’ve spent the last 24 hours rather obsessed with the curious case of the Cleveland Cavaliers and LeBron James. As a result of that drama, I’ve been either over-empathizing with Cleveland, or shamefully reveling in the opportunity to witness something so grim from a relatively safe distance.
I’ll probably write more about this topic in the future, but some days you just have to brush yourself off and try not to dwell on things that you don’t quite understand. That’s how I feel about Buffalo/Cleveland and their tortured sports histories- I don’t quite understand it, I can’t claim it as my own history, and the whole thing is both alluring and horrifying. I’m tempted to dig in and root around in these stories in an effort to find the beautiful, chewy center (I do believe that at the core of Buffalo sports fandom is something beautiful, and faith in that beauty is what attracts me to being a fan), but to get the heart of the matter will take many decades of research. It can’t be rushed, and I’ve only just begun.
So, for today I’ll take a break from my hyper-conscious examination of “The History of Sports in the Rust Belt,” and carry-on as usual. Trudging merrily along, willfully ignorant, a Buffalo sports fan in the making.