It’s cute. It rhymes. It makes sense.

But Texas has never been to Cleveland.

Because you don’t mess with us either.

After what I’m now calling “The Debacle” (much tamer than what most locals are calling it, I assure you), few looked unkindly on our fair city. There was shockingly more national support for us than we could ever have imagined, and we appreciated it loads. But there’s nothing like the vitriol of hometown spew.

At first I missed it. Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I should have thought of something that clever. Writing well-wishes for my softball player on my car. Mm-hmm. Nice. Washes right off when you’re done. Looks crazy. Kids get a good laugh.

It was Mooter who said, “Mooooommmm! Look at what they said!”

Oh. OH! Ha! HA HA HA!

I love my city sometimes. I really, really do.

They did happen to squeeze in a few good words of encouragement to their actual player. So, you know, that was nice.

Man, I gotta get me some of that marker.

Up until mid-June, I had no idea the team had a name.

It’s been a long, hot season for these girls.

We didn’t know it, when we signed Mooter up for softball in May, but this would be a long season for everyone. Kids. Parents. Siblings of the kids. Here it is, mid-July, and the team has been playing their hearts out, in 90-degree heat, in the playoffs.

That’s right. I said playoffs.

Who knew they were good enough to be qualified? And, before you judge, that is not the comment of a bad parent. And it is not to say her team stunk it up extra good. It’s just… they’re eight, nine, and ten-year-olds. They get playoffs?!

Mooter wants to get involved in gymnastics. I told her, between soccer and softball, she was going to have to let something go. Her social calendar is full. Momma needs a break. Daddy is dying. Booger is… well, Booger is loving life because she gets to go to the nearby playground every time there’s a practice or game so she doesn’t count. But cheese-n-crackers, give your parents A BREAK. Sure, you could be spending your idle free time getting into drugs and prostitution, and recreation is great for your development, but I think Momma just had a coronary. Oh, and look, there my brains go oozing out of my nose. If you’re not too busy RECREATIONALIZING THE FREE WORLD, Momma would like a Kleenex for her weeping and oozing frontal lobe. Take your time.

I guess telling kids they’re in the playoffs works wonders for motivation because, holy smack, they made it to the finals!

And lost.

Was it worse than the trauma we suffered last week?

Of course not.

But look at that sportsmanship!

Take notes, LeJerk. Take. Notes.

I am an only child.

Some days I am happy about this. Others, it gets lonely.

This is a story where I’m happy about it.

I do not understand the sibling relationship. It is alien to me. They fight. They love. They fight again. Then they fight some more. They’re sorry. Please don’t tell on me. I said I was sorry. Stop hitting me. Stop biting me. I’m gonna tell. You’re in trouble. I’m so sorry this time. Bark like a dog.

Often times I leave the room wondering if I’ve just witnessed an episode of Divorce Court. I must be Judge Wopner.

So when the girls want to get together and play, it’s monumental and involves lots of moving parts. Who’s going to be the boss? Who narrates the imaginary story? What toys will be played with? Who gets to play The Red Queen because you always get to be The Red Queen and I want to say OFF WITH HER HEAD this time. It’s like bargaining for property in a divorce settlement and no one wants the dog but everyone wants the seaside mansion.

The thing about having such opposite of personalities, in females no less, is the fun usually ends way before it begins. A game may start, a joining of minds on the best way to collectively annoy the parental units – usually involving a toy that makes lots and lots and LOTS of noise – and before long, there are hurt feelings. This is how I can only imagine the U.N. feels when Ahmadinejad comes to New York for a visit of “peace talks”.

There is a piano that’s been in my family generations. It is old, worn, and in need of some restoration love. Add a guitar from BFam’s sister, one she mysteriously inherited after moving out of her college dorm, and a makeshift band has begun in my living room.

Oh yay.

Alas, I can rest easy. This bond? This show of friendly compilation? A ruse. A short-lived one at that. Yet and still, the annoyance is not lost on me. (Please excuse the video quality. I have not confidently learned the inner-workings of my D90′s video function.)

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.

Or cleats…

Or helmets…

Or social interactions?

When the height of their day was making it to the bathroom in enough time to avoid an accident?

Remember those days?

I want those days back.

This girl’s social calendar is more packed than mine.

And not just now. But ever. In my whole lifetime.

Do they have softball for old people?

Who am I kidding. Softball was never my thing. BO-RING. I don’t have the attention span or patience to sit around and wait. And wait. Can anyone say “Snoozefest”? Give me a basketball, a volleyball… heck, I’d even take a soccer ball.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!

Sorry. Having a World Cup flashback.

Mooter’s at bat. YAY! Go Mooter, go!

Oh, OK. Now she’s on base. Is it over yet?

At least her hand-eye coordination is halfway decent.

Momma’s little jock.