Cleveland Rocks

Now, DJMJ is more than permitted to tout his city and his teams when they're in the playoffs, especially when they're going up against a team representing the unholy cesspool that is Detroit. To that end, let me share with you the best Cleveland Tourism video that I've ever seen. At this time, I'll refrain from naming the nine million other sites that have already linked to this.

Creative Differences Takes a Trip: AFL Version

Football. Genesis of my delight from September through (I always hope) early February. Reason for drinking self into a coma every Sunday. In general, the greatest sport (except for playoff hockey and college hoops) in the world. Naturally, arena football must carry some of the same endearing qualities as its bigger, badder older brother, right? Even arena football in Cleveland--right?

Wrong, kind of.

When some family members invited me to see "Gladiators" I was confused. I was pretty sure American Gladiators wasn't switching its filming locations by the week, and I already have the extended edition movie here at the mansion. Finally, upon realizing that it was arena football I was going to be enjoying, and from the fifth row behind the end zone, no less, I started to get excited. So excited that I used some unnecessary commas in that last sentence.

Glory Days

I went into the game with an open mind, and I kept telling myself, hey, it's football, football's fucking awesome no matter how it's being played, even if the combatants are a bunch of lost-it's and never-had-it's. Surely these guys would manage to entertain me sufficiently, especially given the fact that I was close enough to potentially get some spittle or blood on me. Well, turns out, I had no reason to fear, because the event staff at this game was ready to make sure no moment turned dull, no break went without sponsorship, and no gift card went unclaimed.

At this point I'm going to deviate from talking about the game in any way, shape or form. Cleveland won by 12 or 13 in an unusually low-scoring game to clinch a playoff spot. Whoopee. In other news I don't care about, Barack Obama is coming under fire for something or other. Whatever. Anyway, what really matters here, and what really interested me, was the fact that the AFL, which bills itself as the most fan-friendly pro sports league, seems to be quite willing to go to embarrassing lengths to prove it.

I'd say the atmosphere inside The Q was like a minor league baseball game mixed with a circus, but that would be insulting to circuses and minor league baseball teams everywhere. From the "fan attempts a field goal" to the "find the motorcycle helmet while blindfolded (though clearly looking down at the ground visible beneath the blindfold)", every stupid sideshow was represented. There were enough T-shirt tosses to make me consider beating up an old lady, just for giggles. The cheerleaders (sorry, Goddesses, as they're known) look like they just finished a show at Scores, and they have the dance moves of geriatric insurance salesmen.

Whee, action!

Call me a purist, but it goes a little bit beyond being fan-friendly when you've got literally 50 diversions during the course of a game. I'd be willing to bet that working in the promotions department for any AFL team is the fast track to bigger and better things, so long as you're willing to swallow your dignity for at least a few years. The truest, most succinct description of the events came from a family friend who turned to me during yet another ridiculous stoppage event and said, "I can't take this bullshit anymore." Amen.

Honestly, I'm still so much in sensory overload mode from what I saw that I can't really say anything else about the extracurriculars, except that they need some toning down, or go the full monty and get a ringmaster, liontamers with whips and a trapeze artist performing without a net after every score. It can be one or the other, but for my sake, and the sake of all people either over age 11 or with an IQ of more than 50, make up your minds, AFL. I can't take any more T shirt tossing before I start tossing something myself.


Appendix: A quick rundown of all the special activities I can remember

--Multiple T-shirt tosses
--Throwing footballs into the stands after the home team scores
--Blindfolded "Find the helmet"
--Catch a ten-yard pass and sit on the barstool
--Kick a 30-yard field goal (was missed)
--Spin around then hop on one foot while on crutches across the field (no, I'm not making this up)
--Enough fireworks to rouse Helen Keller
--Countless routines by the strippers Goddesses
--Throw the ball into the uprights

An hour of wolves and shattered shields

FYI: That's 32 titles now for the Celtics, Patriots, Bruins and Red Sox

Every year, there are four nights that leave me sullen, gloomy and borderline depressed. Without fail, they occur in early February, early June, mid-June, and late October. They’re the nights of the Super Bowl and the decisive games of the Stanley Cup Finals, NBA Finals and World Series. As a sports fan, I love watching the culmination of an entire season. As a Cleveland fan, I loathe watching the winning team’s celebration.

And you know what? It’s 100 percent jealousy. Plain and simple, it twists my gut to see other teams and fan bases hoist a trophy, especially when our wonderful Cleveland teams constantly find new ways to dump Lake Erie sludge into our hearts.

When the Celtics won the NBA title Tuesday night, I was happy for Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen, who’ve long been two of my favorite players, but I also trudged around listlessly the rest of the evening. When the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, I saw the joy on the players’ faces, and I wondered what that’s like. When the Giants won the Super Bowl, I sunk even lower into myself, because I love the Browns more than any team in all of sports. When the Red Sox won the World Series, all I could do was shake my head.

If that’s not enough, sports seem to have a way of saying “F-you” to Cleveland once or twice a year through other teams’ championships. The Giants and Red Wings are scot-free, but that Celtics team? Taken to the limit in the second round by the Cavs, who challenged them more than anyone else in the playoffs. That Red Sox team? Pushed to the brink by the Indians, who coughed up a hairball the size of Huntington Avenue in the ALCS.

This isn’t about which city has it worst, either, because frankly, that’s not the point. (For a recent microcosm, however, consider this: Jason Michaels is batting .300 with 18 hits, three home runs and 20 RBIs in 30 games with the Pirates. Know why the Indians traded him to Pittsburgh a few weeks ago? Because he couldn’t hit. Seriously, suppress that pride you’re drumming up right now, you do not want to have this argument with me.) There have been bright stretches for Cleveland sports, but in terms of the ultimate goal, it’s been dryer than Ned Flanders’ bachelor party.

I wish I could say I take Cubs-esque pride in that, but the truth is I don’t. I just don’t. When Bill Simmons titled his Red Sox opus “Now I Can Die in Peace”, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to identifying with a fan whose favorite team won a championship. As a soccer player in high school, my team won league and district titles my senior season, and I’m proud to say I was an all-league and all-district midfielder who helped lead the way. That gave me an appreciation for moments when likeable, hard-working athletes win titles, but as much as I gush about it now, there has to be a different kind of satisfaction that comes from watching your favorite team do it, right?

I guess I just don’t know. How could I? As a fan, the most awesome thing I’ve ever won is an Eastern Conference championship. I was almost crying in my apartment last summer as the Cavs took down heavily favored Detroit, and I seriously felt weightless the next couple days. The Browns were yanked from me when I was 10 years old, the Indians won everything except the World Series in the ‘90s, and the Cavs were as important as Y2K firewalls from 1998-2003. How could I not be elated?

It’s those kinds of glimmers that keep me coming back. I watch as many Browns, Cavs and Indians games as I can, I feel great on the nights they win, and I feel bad on the nights they lose. I pump money into the franchises through purchases of merchandise and tickets every year. I wear my teams on my sleeve, and while I’m also a big fan of Penn State and United States soccer, it’s just not the same. I may have grown up elsewhere, but I was born in Cleveland. I put a lot of time and effort into supporting these teams.

I also put time and effort into keeping myself healthy enough to see the day when Cleveland wins another championship. As much as I dislike it, I go running almost every day, and last week I finished my run on a brutally hot afternoon, and I asked myself, “Why do you keep doing this?” All of a sudden, my mind flashed to the end of The Matrix: Revolutions, when Agent Smith kicks Neo’s ass in the superfight and asks him the same question. Exhausted, beaten and kneeling in the pouring rain, Neo looks up and says, “Because I choose to.”

My rooting interests share that sentiment.