THERE is no song called “I Left My Heart in Cleveland.” Cleveland is the flip side of California and the Golden State Warriors, whom they have met in the last two N.B.A. finals. The former Cleveland Cavaliers basketball coach David Blatt once said: “We’re in Cleveland. Nothing is easy here.” Then he got fired.
Sunday night Cleveland came back from a three-games-to-one deficit to beat Golden State and win the N.B.A. championship. I was born in Cleveland, my father was born in Cleveland, my children were born in Cleveland, and we’ve all seen many, many losing teams — 52 years’ worth, if you’re counting. And we’re counting here in Cleveland. The last time Cleveland won a championship was the 1964 National Football League Championship. My dad took me. I was in Section 18, Row T, Seat 8 of Municipal Stadium.
Two years ago, when LeBron James announced his return to Cleveland from Miami in Sports Illustrated, some Cleveland men teared up. My middle-aged friend Jimmy and I did. So un-Cleveland — those tears. The credo here is “Cleveland: You’ve Got to Be Tough,” from a T-shirt first printed in the 1970s when the boy-mayor Dennis Kucinich ushered the city into default.
James wrote: “Before anyone ever cared where I would play basketball, I was a kid from Northeast Ohio. It’s where I walked. It’s where I ran. It’s where I cried. It’s where I bled. It holds a special place in my heart. People there have seen me grow up. I sometimes feel like I’m their son.”
My kids moved away from Cleveland. Maybe, like King James, they will come back. I have one son temporarily sleeping here. There’s hope. It’s sometimes hard to find jobs here, it’s not particularly trendy here, it’s frequently gray, but there are some major pluses: no traffic jams, cheap houses, a great art museum and orchestra and coconut bars (a local Jewish delicacy).
In 2012, two years after James left Cleveland for South Beach, I played a gig (I have a klezmer band) at a relative’s bat mitzvah in Atlanta. I played music for the hora for a few minutes until the D.J. cued up a sappy recording of “Hava Nagila” that drowned me out. He said, “Give it up for Uncle Bert from Cleveland!”
A guest complimented me on my clarinet playing, and said he was from Cleveland, too. “People are always ragging on Cleveland,” he said. “I defend it. Everybody lives in developments here in Atlanta, and if you’re here two years, you’re considered an old-timer.”
I told him to buy the book “The Whore of Akron” by Scott Raab, about James leaving town. I said: “It’s more about the author, who lives in New Jersey. He’s from Cleveland and all he can think about, still, is Cleveland.”
When I got home from Atlanta, I decided to buy the book and ship it to the guest, via Amazon, as a gift, with a note: “From ‘Uncle Bert’ in Cleveland.”
I didn’t even get a thank you. A Midwesterner would write a thank you, I figured. I thought about writing, “You’re a disgrace to Cleveland!” Instead, I messaged, “You get the LeBron book I sent you?”
He messaged right back: “I had no idea you were the one that sent me the book! I remember you as Julie’s Uncle Bert and the note with the book said it was from Al.” (My legal name is Albert, and apparently the small-print “From Uncle Bert” note was overshadowed by my name and address.) He continued: “Once I picked up the book, I could not put it down. It was as if Raab was reading my mind and soul. He translates perfectly what it means to be both Jewish and a Cleveland sports fan. I actually highlighted portions of the book that I will go back and read during the next heartbreak to help me get through.”
No need to re-read, Cleveland fans. I’ve got to tell my father the news. The problem is he has been dead for 30 years. The newest T-shirt in town is “Believeland, Ohio.” I’ll try that on. Hi, Dad! Today, you don’t have to be tough in Cleveland.
Author: Bert Stratton
Source: NYTimes
