Tuesday night was relaxing. Key word: “relaxing”. It was dinner at 6, meeting at 7, gin at 8:30, then DVR’d “Olbermann” and “Castle” enhanced by Skinny Pop popcorn in bed. Oh yeah, and commencing 10:45 give or take, periodic pausing the recorder to check the NBA playoffs.
Let’s go Cavs!
Now before you start railing on me as my son does or registering skeptical amusement as my son-in-law has, let me explain:
It’s not that I don’t care. Of course I do. Indeed, I am passionate. Past games have been riveting and I stood before the TV the last five minutes of each. (Ed. Note 1: Regulation, that is. The first two went to overtime. As such, I retreated to the recorder until I sensed but a minute or two of game remained).
I can’t take the stress.
Michael doesn’t get it; neither does Jason. The guys up at Corkys do, though. (The non-gamblers). And the bailiff I spoke to just today does … and I do.
Look, I’ve paid my dues!
I sat in the Coliseum rafters for the Miracle At Richfield. I was THERE when “Duck” Snyder hit the layup. And I suffered through “The Shot” of Jordan; I did.
I was in the dog pound with H for “The Drive”, watched “The Fumble” on tv with Mandel, and sat in disbelief as the Indians pissed away the last game of the 97 World Series.
Oh… and even before all that I had my heart broken in the final minute freezing my ass off in the upper deck with Al Oster at the Red Right 88 Game. The windchill of -37 degrees still ranks in the Top Ten of the NFL’s “Weather Games”. Google it. Ah, but I was young. (Ed. Note 2: How much did I want to be there? I wore a garbage bag with cut-out sleeves over my winter coat).
I say DAYEINU! Enough!
I just don’t need the stress. (Ed. Note 3: That’s why I never read novels. Only non-fiction for this cowboy. I need to know how things end. At 65, I’ve had enough drama in my life. I’ve buried four grandparents, two parents, a step-father and a marriage. I’ve served in the Cub Scouts, the Army, and was married to a girl from New Jersey. I’ve taken my Aunt Helen shopping).
Yes, DAYEINU! I say. I’m all in.
The Cavs tip off at 9 tonight. I’ll be ready.
We’ll have dinner by 8, play some gin around 9; and then I’ll head for bed.
And “Olbermann”
And “Castle” (or maybe “The Mentalist”).
…And at 10:45 give or take, I’ll check out the game.
Hopeful I’ll be, to be sure. Calm I’ll be, either way. And best yet: my cardiologist will be smiling.
Only a clevelander would understand this behavior. Makes perfect sense to me.
A REAL CLEVELANDER (AS IF I’M PERMITTED TO SAY THAT) WOULD TAKE THE STRESS. IT’S OUR DUTY.
Each of the two prior comments was issued by an old friend who (like me), spent formative years living on Bayard Road in the Cleveland suburb of South Euclid, Ohio.
Fifty years later I reside 2.17 miles from that home. Fifty years later Stuart resides half the year 4.1 miles from that home.
Fifty years later, Alan, dear Alan…a man we love and respect …(after touching down in Oklahoma in the 70’s, Louisiana in the 80’s, South Africa in the 90’s, and South Carolina on the turn of the century) — fifty years later he lives in Portland, f-ing Oregon, some 2476.26 miles from his roots.
Watch the game Alan, and come home soon. What time does it tip off in your timezone? Noon?
you are so good
I love you too.