It wouldn't have been Cleveland if the Cavaliers had won.
That's not what Cleveland sports teams do. There must be heartbreak. There must be desperation. There must be earnest, pale faces waving signs that say "Quitness."
In a city ravaged by foreclosures, the Cavs played the Heat last night in an arena owned by an online mortgage lender.
Local politicians are so crooked that one Cuyahoga County commissioner -- affectionately known in some circles as Fat Jimmy -- is barred from speaking to his colleagues due to pending federal corruption charges.
Clevelanders -- this ex-pat included -- don't need
national sports pundits to ridicule the river that caught on fire or wax poetic about empty steel mills.
They love their flawed city; that's why they insult it so much. They can reel off a string of qualities -- cheap gourmet food, leafy trees, brick houses, real boobs -- that give them a leg up on South Beach.
But they're not the bragging type. They'll let LeBron James and the "greatness" he so eloquently took to Miami speak for them.
Because here's the truth: This morning, they woke up to gray skies, frigid weather, and the comforting knowledge that their luck has never changed.
Here in South Florida, we awoke to blue skies, sunshine, and the knowledge that the biggest egomaniac in the NBA plays for our team.