Ben Taylor
It would be a travesty if we were to publish the year’s first issue of the Voice without mentioning the most important moment in the history of the Cleveland Cavaliers since July 8, 2010. The King is returning to his rightful throne.
I converted to Cavalier fandom sometime around 2005, when I was in fifth grade and LeBron was in his sophomore year in the league. As is the case with most fifth graders, I needed to know little beyond the fact that he was a great player to fall quickly head over heels for his game. (The knowledge that I was soon moving to the great state of Ohio helped as well.)
Over the next several seasons, I had my hopes raised time and time again, only to have them dashed, first by the Pistons, then by the Spurs and by the Celtics and Magic after that. I reveled in the experience of watching one of the greatest NBA playoff performances ever in Game Five of the 2007 Eastern Conference Finals (LeBron scored 29 of the Cavs’ final 30 points) wearing every piece of Cavaliers attire I owned (two hats, a jersey, a second shirt, and a headband) for good luck. Shortly thereafter, we were swept by the Spurs, outplayed and outsmarted in practically every possible way.
The next season, I watched in dismay as the 66-16 Cavaliers came undone against the Orlando Magic after sweeping their first two series, losing in six.
Finally, I watched a 2-1 lead against Boston dissipate in the midst of alleged arm injuries. The man was shooting free throws left handed. I don’t care if you’re ambidextrous around the rim; you should probably shoot your jumpers with your dominant arm.
These trifling defeats paled in comparison to the horror I would feel almost two months later. After years of arguing against the idea that LeBron would leave the Cavs for New York, I was blindsided by his decision to “take his talents to South Beach.” I nearly threw up right then and there. Upon recovery, I promptly gathered up all of my LeBron memorabilia, found my mother and asked where I could find a lighter. She refused to tell me, and I spent the next several hours sulking around the house grumpily.
The next four years compounded the agony. As my brother and I turned our LeBron jerseys into door mats, LeBron turned his disloyalty into championships. I refused to watch the “not one, not two, not three” video. The gashes in my heart were too wide; the tiniest grains of salt in those wounds caused me to drown in waves of pain.
Over that time, the Cavaliers compiled some of the worst records in the league, winning fewer than 30 games three seasons in a row. Each year they finished last in their division, once in the bottom of their conference. Their utter lack of anything resembling success rewarded them with higher and higher drafts picks. Out of the ashes LeBron had left in his wake, the foundation of a new structure began to be laid. Kyrie Irving, Tristan Thompson, Dion Waiters, Matthew Dellavedova (yes, I include him over Anthony Bennett) and Tyler Zeller formed a young core that seemed poised right on the brink of potential and the future. Could they ever be good enough to win a championship? At the very least, they would certainly be very good.
Then, something miraculous happened. We were awarded the first pick in the draft for the third time in four seasons. (Thank you, David Stern.) We struck gold in the form of Andrew Wiggins. No matter what happened in free agency, our roster was certain to be dynamic in ways it hadn’t been for nearly half a decade.
If receiving the top pick was miraculous, then there is no way to describe what followed it. Words fail to capture LeBron’s decision to return. As a Cleveland sports fan, I had been through two of the worst stages of grief — a foul and simmering anger followed by a gloomy depression manifesting itself in the form of an uncaring apathy — only to learn that my loved one had returned.
All I know is this: the long, cold, lake-effect-driven winter is over.
It’s springtime again for Cleveland basketball.