I’m from Cleveland, not the suburbs or some area kind of near there. My family lived on the West Side. My mom went to Lincoln High. My dad was a cop on the East Side.
So I did my civic duty and followed the Cavaliers through their expected Eastern Conference championship and an improbable Game Seven against the Warriors.
When LeBron James blocked Andre Iguodala’s layup with 1:50 to play, and Kyrie Irving swished a critical three-pointer with 53 seconds left to nail down victory, I felt … Pretty much nothing.
That’s not the cynic in me. I feasted on drama while covering the Sabres’ glorious playoff runs in ’06 and ’07. I actually felt illness wash over me within minutes of filing my final story from Raleigh in ’06, a physical letdown after being propelled by a week’s-long rush.
Bully for you, Cleveland. You got your title. Your quest has been fulfilled.
But what I learned about myself Sunday is the next time a championship makes me happy will be when they’re celebrating in my hometown, Buffalo.