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The NBA All-Star Game Comes to Cleveland! (CLE Weekends, Pt. 3)

Thursday, February 24, 2022

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Whew, what a weekend! If you follow me on Instagram (no pressure, but I'm fun over there), you know that I had a whirlwind few days here in the CLE. The NBA All-Star game was in town, & I had the honor of being one of a few locals invited to work with the NBA to help them create an authentic Cleveland experience. In return, I received tickets to most of the weekend's events.

I don't even really know how to recap it all here, & does anyone even care about recaps? So here's a highlight reel, the written kind. (If you want the video kind, check out my IG video, which doesn't include the All-Star game itself.)

Here were the best moments of the weekend.

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Livin' the Suite Life... at a Cleveland Browns Game!

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

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Late November marked the five-year anniversary of my move back to Northeast Ohio - & I celebrated it by doing one of the coolest things I’ve yet had the opportunity to do in this city.

The fine folks at downtown Cleveland's JACK Casino invited four local bloggers to join them for a Cleveland Browns game, getting a firsthand taste of the ClubJACK experience. It was honored to be selected, & I was thrilled that my friend Marisa agreed to join me. We had such a fun day - & the Cleveland weather even cooperated!
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Cleveland Against the World: Some Thoughts on Chicago, the World Series, & Lasting Pride

Thursday, November 3, 2016

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Late last night, in a sad stupor after an overtime World Series that resulted in an Indians loss, I posted to Facebook. It was 2am, & I was very busy emo-snarfing a frozen pizza & crying actual tears (for no real reason at all), & I was amazed, I wrote, to learn that Chicago has actually won a World Series much more recently than last night, given that the White Sox won in 2005.

Of course, as it my unfortunate tendency when I'm feeling spontaneously passionate about Cleveland, I said it a lot more forcefully than intended & used a lot of capital letters. Perhaps rightfully so, it struck a nerve with some people.

This morning, I woke up to comments & private messages from friends telling me I have no idea how baseball works; one even told me I was embarrassing myself with my post & that it made me look like an idiot. Needless to say, I woke up feeling pretty embarrassed, & like a jerk, to boot. I apologized individually to a couple of folks, then I deleted the post & planned to crawl into a hole & pretend like it never happened. But then I remembered that I have a blog, where I can rant & rave & clarify if I want to - & I want to.

I guess my point was just this: I love my city more than I love any particular sport within it. And I just want Cleveland to win, period.

That's why, when I realized that Chicago has another Series-winning baseball team, in addition to all their other winning sports team (see: Bulls, Blackhawks), it suddenly made it harder for me to understand or continue to feel fondly toward the sad Cubs fans who'd been lamenting their 108-year dry spell. You live in a city full of winning sports teams! You live in a city that's not the butt of national jokes! It just made me feel like maybe Chicago was being a little greedy.

I get it, you don't just root for both of your city's sports teams, especially if you're a diehard sports fan. Each team has a dedicated fan base, & the lines don't blur just because they're from the same place. But also I don't get it, because I can't imagine ever not rooting for Cleveland. And that's the difference, I suppose: I'm not a sports fan, not really. I'm just a Cleveland fan. Maybe that means I shouldn't make grand statements, then, about sports, but sometimes I get a little overzealous in my love of this city. Maybe you've noticed?

Look, I do feel like, if we were going to lose the World Series, it ought to be to a team that hasn't won in so long, even if they're from an otherwise winning city. I love, too, that this Series was a battle between two Midwestern cities, with the whole country tuning in even though they call us "flyover states" all the rest of the time. And at the end of the night, even after the Indians lost, the dive bar we watched from still played "Cleveland Rocks," that godawfully annoying tune from The Drew Carey Show that has somehow come to represent our fair city.

I know that I'm, like, always writing a love letter to this city & that you guys are all probably annoyed by it now. I just love it here. I am proud to be here. I am proud to stay here for the rest of my damn life & never, ever leave again. And win or lose, I will be here rooting for our sports team - yes, even the Browns - the whole time. 
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The Curse Reversed, the Kingdom Restored

Monday, June 20, 2016

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In 2008, when Barack Obama was elected to become the 44th president of the United States of America, I had the honor of living in Washington, D.C., of being friends with a bunch of politically minded, liberal Jews. We watched the election results together, biting our nails & cracking jokes to ease the tension, hold signs that said "YES, WE CAN"... in Hebrew. And when the results came in, we cried & hugged & laughed & cried some more, & then I walked the mile & a half home from Dupont Circle to Cleveland Park, high-fiving stranger & whooping at honking cars as they passed. It was the most joyful experience of my entire life...

...until now.

Last night, I watched Game 7 of the NBA Finals from Hoopples, a dive bar on the edge of The Flats, with more than a dozen friends. The place was packed - completely out of seats, & they quickly ran out of all the good beer (& by the end, even the bad beer). In the first quarter, they closed the kitchen because the staff was too overwhelmed to keep up. The glorious thing about Hoopples is that it displays the games in the Clevelandiest way possible - by projecting them on the side of a derelict bridge. That means that every seat in the house is a good one!


We bit our proverbial nails through every minute of that game, yelling & cheering & panicking & hoping. And when it came down to those final minutes - nay, those final seconds - there was that same old fear this city knows so well, the fear that the game would, in the end, conclude the same way every Cleveland sports game has for, like, ever. It was more than a fear: It was, in some ways, an expectation.

But they say you can't spell "miracle" without C-L-E, & we haven't been calling this place "Believeland" for nothing. We didn't expect to win, but we still hoped we would. We still believed we could.

And so there it was. The win. The fucking win, the win this city has awaited for 52 years.

You've never seen a place go crazy like we saw Cleveland go crazy last night. There at Hoopples, where we watched history in the making, there was screaming & crying & laughing & hugging & more crying. We came together in a huddle, a pile, a mass, & I almost blacked out because I realized I was so excited that I wasn't even breathing. We watched grown men cry. We watched everyone cry.


And then we took to downtown to see what a city full of happy chaos looks like. As we walked across the bridge into The Flats, the cars that passed us honked & we whooped in response. People hung out of their car windows & sat on top of their sunroofs as they made their way out of the city. We high-fived or hugged nearly every single person we passed. As when we turned the corner into downtown, we were stunned by the thousands - I am telling you, thousands - of people who were, just like us, meandering around the city, aimless, in sheer joy. I have never touched so many damn strangers in my life - old people, little kids, black people, white people, men, women, the whole of Cleveland all in one place, celebrating together.

Finally we gathered under the LeBron sign, the huge banner that adorns the side of a building at the entrance to downtown. Above it, there was a new addition: the word "champions," alight, with the Cavs C glowing in the night. Down the street, Terminal Tower blazed red & gold. Across the city, the state, the country, social media lit up, too, with pride & shock & pure elation.

Mike & I walked the two miles home & fell asleep, incredulous & thrilled. We woke up this morning knowing it wasn't a dream. And like the rest of this city, we went through today bulletproof in our joy, hanging onto the kind of happiness you can only find from a city that's never, ever known a win like this.

When asked why this championship win was different than his other two, LeBron James, who wept openly on the court in the wake of the win, said plainly, "I'm home." Well, so am I, & I have never been prouder to call myself a Clevelander than I was last night. After all those other moves & all those other cities, I am finally home. Cleveland is forever.

Two won six, y'all. They did it. We did it. Cleveland rocks.

 
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My First Time Visiting the Factory of Sadness (a.k.a. Attending a Browns Game)

Monday, December 14, 2015

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Cleveland sports fans are used to losses, but this year, the headlines are more depressing than ever. The Cleveland Plain Dealer has recently proclaimed, "Cleveland Browns are in a regression, leading to severe fan depression," and "Rock bottom? The Cleveland Browns should be so lucky with four games remaining."

Even Browns fans, it seems, are tired of the Browns.

But long, long ago, before our dear, terrible team had solidified themselves as being even more terrible than usual, I emailed a bunch of Mike's friends (I think I'm allowed to call them my friends now?) to ask if anyone would be interested in going to the Browns v. Ravens game the Monday after Thanksgiving. A Monday night game! The Browns versus the old Browns! Friends & tailgating!

And so six of us signed on to attend, paying $47 apiece for tickets that, the day of the game, were selling for about $12. Hindsight is painful.

I hadn't been to a Browns game since I was a little kid - back when my dad was still alive, I think, but maybe that was an Indians game & I'd never actually seen the Browns play? Beats me. What I'm  saying is that I was pretty excited, despite the Browns utter lack of respectability.

We met up beforehand at a hole-in-the-wall, cash-only bar that serves Genessee & claims to have the best corned beef sandwiches in town. Everyone but me was decked out in Browns gear; our friend Erin knitted her own scarf bearing the name of every Browns starting quarterback. We forgot to eat dinner & got a little tipsy, following the pack of rabid Browns fan on the walk across the bridge & into the stadium, where I immediately consumed a hot dog & purchased a Browns hat for a whopping $28 because I wanted to show my Cleveland pride.

This game was a disappointment of epic proportions, even for the Browns, who lost in the last few seconds. But because Cleveland is accustomed to loss, nobody even seemed to yell or moan in horror when it happened - we all just sort of, like, nodded & meandered away, sad & defeated. And then "Float On" by Modest Mouse rang out through the stadium,  song about being so close but still falling short.

In all, the game was depressing as hell - & I still had a great time. Would it be preferable to have a team who isn't a perpetual disappointment? Yeah, for sure. But Cleveland's got grit, & Cleveland's got the Browns, & win or lose, I was honored to wear the brown & orange & watch my first in-person Cleveland loss. It felt like a rite of passage.

And we'll all float on, OK? We'll all float on anyway.
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Believeland

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

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I am sitting in a bar called The Treehouse in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland, drinking beers with a guy I met on OKCupid. This is where we had our first date, but now, a month later, we're on date I-lost-count, & we've taken a $13 Uber here so we can both have more than a few PBRs in a can while we watch the Cavs dominate (please, please, please) the Hawks in game three.

We talk through most of the game, distracted by the company, but in the last seven minutes of this battle for game three of the Eastern Conference Finals, we turn our attention back to LeBron & the boys. The bar filled up while we weren't paying attention, & it's now teeming with Clevelanders donning their wine & gold, all eyes turned toward the TV mounted in the corner. We were lucky to have arrived early enough to score prime seats at the bar in what has become a standing-room-only space.

Watching the TV intently, some girl has her arm draped over the back of my chair, & I accidentally knock it off when I swivel for a better view of the screen. "I'm so sorry!" we exclaim in unison, laughing & giving each other the go-ahead to claim the spot. It is a comedy of polite errors, each of us out-friendlying the other. "You & that girl are exactly the same person," my date laughs, "so you should probably be friends with her." I look around the bar & think of all the people here who are like me, like us - gritty, gregarious Midwesterners with nasally A's who say "pop" instead of "soda" & wear their love of their state on their sleeve, often literally. (Truly, I've never seen a city full of so many people wearing hometown swag on an everyday basis - not just on game days.)

The end of this game is getting tense, & there is shouting, the bad kind, after a missed basket. There is hand-wringing & mouth-covering & profanity-muttering as, for a moment or two, the game becomes close & it looks like the Cavs might not pull it off - you know, as is customary. Briefly, I wonder what it will be like to be in a bar full of hopeful Clevelanders during a big loss, to start to grumble, "Hey, maybe next year" before this year has even finished; that's what we do, after all. But then, in the very last seconds of the game, there is victory. There is yelling & cheering & clapping & toasting & high-fiving with strangers.

And it is in this moment, surrounded by strangers & drunk on possibilities & PBR, that I realize: To be at a bar in Cleveland for a major Cavs win is the best possible reminder that home is exactly where I'm supposed to be, where I'm supposed to go, where I always knew I would end up. We call this "witnessing," but I guess you probably just call it "winning." And whether the Cavs do it this time or not, I feel like I already have.
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We Had a (Snow)Ball Watching the Super Bowl: A Story of Life in the Wintry Suburbs

Sunday, February 1, 2015

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A few minutes before the Super Bowl halftime show, the satellite TV went out at my friends Annie & Derick's house. The three of us sat in silent unison for a moment, staring at the screen, hoping the problem would self-correct & let us get back to the game without having to arise from our food comas.

No such luck.

The dish was covered in snow, & we couldn't return to our TV-watching unless we could come up with a way to uncover it. Problem? The dish was on their roof, & there was about half a foot of wet, heavy snow both up there & on the ground below.

It didn't seem likely that we were going to get to see the rest of the game.

But Derick wasn't going down without a fight. "I'm going to climb up there," he insisted, despite the fact that the snow was now coming down in sheets & that he wasn't even sure whether they owned a ladder. His wife, naturally, began to panic: "This is going to end in a trip to the ER," she insisted. "Be smart."

So we brainstormed. Could we aim the spray of the hose at the snow-covered dish to clear it off? Derick tried, but he couldn't get a steady stream. Could we stick something out the second-story window beneath the dish, like a broom, to reach it without getting on the roof? But the architecture of their roof meant we couldn't reach around the lip to get at the spot directly above the window where the dish sat.

"What if we throw something at it?" Derick wondered aloud.

But what?

"Snowballs," I said.

So we did.

For 10 minutes, Annie & I created hard-packed, softball-sized snowballs, handing them off to Derick to fling skyward. Some of them missed, careening toward their neighbor's car & out into the street - but thanks to a good eye & a strong arm, many of them hit their target. When they did, they struck the satellite dish with enough force to knock off some of the snow it had collected. About 20 snowballs into our effort, I peeked my head through their back door into the living room, where I saw the pixelated screen begin to reassemble itself into Katy Perry & her dancing sharks.

We took off our boots & ate a celebratory cookie or three, settling back into the couch to marvel at Missy Elliott's hair extensions.

Throughout the course of the game, the satellite TV went out two more times. Both times, we pulled on our snowboots & trudged diligently back outside, returning to the work of snowball-making so that we could then return to the work of Super Bowl-watching. "Bet you didn't think you'd have to work for your right to watch the game," Annie joked. We were cold & wet & annoyed, but I think we all kind of enjoyed an excuse to have a snowball fight with a purpose.

And all I could think was that this was so, so different than what my life has been like for the last seven & a half years - where cities shut down at the thought of a few snowflakes, & where maintenance men cleared the snowy sidewalks & handled all my housing problems, & where I might've had to wait for the bus in the rain but certainly never had to drive my car in the sleet. My D.C. friends all think I come from the sticks, & I know a story like this one isn't going to go a long way in convincing them otherwise - but I had a great time tonight, laughing in the dark at the end of a snow-covered, dead-end street, being Midwestern MacGyvers & making the best of a bad situation. 

And when I got home, I shoveled the driveway, just to prove that I'm an Ohioan. Like anyone doubted me.

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Vamos United: The Day I Maybe Became a Soccer Fan

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

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I recall my childhood experience with soccer as follows: When I was in elementary school - maybe 6 or 7 years old? - I was the only girl on my soccer team, perhaps because my father was, for some inexplicable reason, the coach. I wasn't very enthusiastic, & I definitely wasn't very good, & above all else, I was an easily embarrassed, shy kid. One day, after I scored a goal for the opposing team, I quit playing soccer - & my dad continued to coach the team without me.

For most of my life, that was as far as my relationship with the sport of soccer extended.

Until last weekend.

My friend Arielle, it turns out, loves soccer, & on Halloween, as we dined at a fancy restaurant while wearing fleece animal onesies (man, I should've blogged about that), she asked if I'd be interested in joining her at D.C. United's playoff game on Saturday. I wasn't particularly interested, honestly, because I don't know or care about soccer - but I like Arielle & I like adventures, so why not? I said yes.

On Saturday afternoon, she outfitted me in a D.C. United beanie & long-sleeved shirt so I would fit in, & we headed off to RFK Stadium, which looks like it should be the site of a scene from the Walking Dead. Seriously, the place looks apocalyptically abandoned, but for the fact that, come soccer time, it fills with screaming, chanting, stomping, drum-beating, flag-waving, beer-throwing fans. It was chaos in the best way.

We stopped by the tailgate party, a parking lot filled with a sea of black & red, where Arielle introduced me to fellow fans. Afraid of being seen as a poser, I was initially embarrassed when she announced that it was my first game, but everyone was warm & welcoming. "We have two rules," one guy told me. "The first is to have as much fun as possible. The second is that if we win, you've got to come back." Where other sports fans disdain fair-weather fans, soccer embraces them - they just want fans, period, & I was happy to try to become one.

The rest of the tailgating scene can best be described as a makeshift Midwestern state fair, but in much colder weather & with far fewer mullets. Though we arrived an hour & a half before the game started, the kegs had already run dry, & I have a feeling it wasn't for lack of initial volume. Food trucks served ravenous drunk fans willing to brave long lines (although we, sober & impatient of the cold, weren't among them). In a nearby tent, an MLS sponsor out very creatively emblazoned "THIS IS SOCCER" scarves to chilly fans looking for extra swag (& precisely because we were sober & impatient of the cold, this time we were among them). On our way into the stadium, we scored more swag - another scarf, this one in D.C United colors, & inflatable "bam bam sticks" that made loud, hollow noises when beaten together so we could cause maximum noise.

Soccer is a notoriously low-scoring game, but it sort of doesn't matter because it's still fascinating to watch the players try to score. Football is a lot of stop-&-go brute force, & baseball is a lot of standing around, & basketball is a lot of tall guys lumbering back & forth on squeaky floors, but soccer feels like... more, somehow. Soccer is skill & grace & athleticism & talent. Soccer is art. I was surprisingly rapt, paying very close attention as I tried to follow along, & impressed the whole time.

D.C. United did score twice, which was not enough for them to win the game despite the fact that the other team only scored once, because apparently playoff soccer has some ridiculously weighted scoring rules. BUT. When they did score? The whole stadium erupted into cheers & song & such enthusiastic stomping that the cement stadium floors quaked beneath us. Showers of beer soaked the crowd, & plums of smoke snaked into the air as smokebombs went off throughout the cheering sections. Man, I've never seen anything like it.

I thought I'd be bored out of my skull, but I found myself riveted. I found myself praying for overtime. And when it was over, I found myself kind of wanting to be a soccer fan, the kind with team allegiances & tailgating plans of my own.

So will I ever make it to another pro soccer game? Hey, maybe not. But then again, Ohio has a team of its own, & I'm thisclose to convincing Arielle to come visit me the next time the Columbus Crew plays D.C. United. The only question is, which team's colors will I wear? I guess I've got some time to decide.

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