FEARlessons: Disappointment

Thursday.

Thursday was the last day I’d posted. Last day my city was held hostage. Last day of living under shrouded guises, broken promises and shreds of hope. Last day Lucy van Pelt polished her saddle shoes, dusted off her cornflower blue dress, straightened her bobby socks, and held out that football.

And we kicked it.

Poor Cleveland. Poor, poor Charlie Brown, always kicking that football thinking this time, this time, things will be different. Poor, stupid, wishful Charlie Brown. In the end, we will probably always kick the football because how does one survive thinking anything differently? Instead of a city of maybes, we’d be a city of suicide watches. And maybe that’s what the nation wants us to be. We’re the laughing stock. The stepchildren. The black sheep. The losers, nerds, freaks and geeks. We get shoved in lockers, dumped in the cafeteria trash bin, dunked in restroom toilets. We are the unwanted. We are the bald-headed kid with the one curly-q swirl of hair on our foreheads. Poor Cleveland.

Have you ever tried explaining that to an eight-year-old?

I wasn’t going to watch it. “The Decision.” Wasn’t going to risk being hurt. Didn’t want to witness the humiliation. In my head, I wanted differently. We all did. In my heart, I knew. I busied myself with getting the house ready for bed. Baths, pajamas, teeth brushed, hair combed, goodnight. Out of habit, I flicked on the tube. Out of curiosity, I tuned the channel to ESPN. Out of patience, I walked away.

And then she sat down.

“What’s this you’re watching, Mommy?” she said. Oh. You know. Stuff about basketball. “But that’s what Daddy watches. Why are you watching it?” Well. You know. Um. Well. Today is the day we find out if, you know, HE is staying. (Understand I can’t say his name now.) “Staying? What do you mean?” Err, uh. Well-uh. Staying… here. In Cleveland. “What? But. But… why. Why would he? Why would he leave? I don’t want him to leave. Who wants him to go? He’s my favorite player. Doesn’t he know he’s my favorite player?”

I sat down with my eight-year-old, fully ready to explain to her that she lives in Cleveland. That this, this outcome we all knew was coming, was something she would have to not only deal with but get used to because this? This is Cleveland. And this is where you were born. And this is where you live. And this is what happens here. And the only good thing about knowing that is also knowing you are surrounded by people who understand. Who commiserate. Who empathize. Because we? We were born, raised, bleed and cry here, too. We are the unloved.

But she’s eight.

So I shut up and waited.

And she sat there. Then she stood up, walked out of the room, and returned with a box of Kleenex.

And I lost it.

And then, he said it.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn.

I couldn’t make him take it back. Couldn’t turn off the television fast enough. The gasps from the crowd – THE KIDS – should have been enough. But the gasp from my own laid me in the coffin, nailed it shut, then proceeded to dredge six feet of dirt on top of it. Had I told my eight-year-old that her father had been kidnapped, drug out into the back woods of Kentucky, and viciously mauled by dogs, I would hope that it would have elicited the same type of response as the tears, the loud, uncontrollable sobs that physically shook this kid. No Kleenex was big enough. No bath towel.

She had just played a softball game earlier that night. Played one hell of a game, too. Stole bases, tagged out players – on the right team! – made so many runs we lost count. She was proud. We were beaming. And then, she came home and, in a matter of a “decision”, all was forgotten. Her father, off running errands, walked in the door only to be met with what would be the beginning of our long night. “Who died?! What happened?! What’s wrong?!” Oh. You didn’t hear, I said. It took him a hair of a second before, “What? Oh, he –oh.”

Having grown up without a man physically present in the house, I have no idea what it’s like to have the consolation of a father. But when my eight-year-old grows up, I hope she understands what an impact such a presence means to a daughter. I did my motherly duty. I held her. I told her it would be alright. I gave her more Kleenex. I helped wipe away tears. But BFam? He kissed her face. He patted her back. He told her to forget that quitter. He praised her for the great softball game she played, and how well she did, and does she know why she did so well? Because she didn’t quit. And she wasn’t a quitter like that man who publicly humiliated us on national television. And we would pick up the pieces and move on because that’s what we do. And it will be OK. And he made her laugh. And he made her forget.

And she went to sleep.

And the house was quiet. Quiet enough for the grownups to reconvene in the bedroom with the sports channels, and their laptops, and the constant streaming of non-stop information about what just happened because oh-my-gah did you see how he just crapped on us and wiped his butt with the Witness poster that formerly hung in the city’s main hub? We speculated how long he’d been planning to leave. We read “The Letter” to follow-up “The Decision” from the Cavs’ owner. Nationally, people laughed at our reactions, our burning of jerseys in the streets. Called us sad, lame, losers. The next day, we went to our respective jobs, schools and day camps, reliving everything all over again, trying not to feel like the very names the bullies in the streets were calling us. Commiserating with our fellow Clevelanders, our fellow sufferers.

That night, my eight-year-old watched little of the hubbub that continued in all forms of media. From what glimpses she caught, reminding her that her sports hero was indeed gone, she asked us, “Is that why you were trying to make me laugh? Is that why you were trying to make me feel better?” Yes. “So he’s really not coming back, is he?” No. “OK. Can I have some cookies?”

We will get through this. Poor, pitiful, little sad Cleveland will get through this. We always do. We will use this incident as a catalyst to teach our children that sometimes we can put too much faith in a person when they are only that – a person. Sometimes we can hope so much that we put stock into just about anything. And sometimes, it is only a game. The disappointment stings, but it will pass.

Lucy van Pelt may visit here, but that broad can’t stay.