Obsessions, from the Cavs to shoes

I never thought I’d have to compete with a guy named James for a boyfriend.

I’ve only known Brad for about a year. I knew he was a Cleveland fan, and that Mr. LeBron James is his savior. I just didn’t realize that Brad was obsessed. For the past few weeks, his life has revolved around the NBA playoffs. I was relieved when the Cavs lost to the Pistons in the final and seventh game of the second round.

Everyone has his or her obsessions. Sometimes they’re short-lived. Sometimes there is more than one at a time. For me, one has always been shoes. I am a woman. But there have been others, like the 30 pairs of sunglasses I collected one summer to match all of my shoes. For a while, I collected paperweights. Recently, my fascination with dill pickle flavored potato chips has receded into a nagging urge now and then.

When I was a child, YMCA soccer was the thing. My freshman year of college it was Ohio University club hockey. But all of my flaming obsessions have burned down into interests or mere memories. Except for the shoes. I can’t figure out how and don’t really want to get rid of that.

The spectrum of obsessions across the human race ranges from alcoholism to Zen. Some obsessions turn into addictions. And from my brief case study of Brad, I conclude that as a Cleveland fan, the Cavs, the Indians and the Browns are exactly that — an addiction.

I can see the signs, the first of which is denial. Most Ohioans know that Cleveland professional sports seem to be cursed. The last time the Indians won a World Series was 1948. The last time the Browns won the Super Bowl was 1964. And the Cavs? They’ve never won an NBA title. Ever. This year was the first in 13 years that they made it to the second round of playoffs. Brad’s not in denial of the so-called curse. He’s in denial that he lets his livelihood depend upon the yearly fates of those teams.

The second sign: he has missed work to watch a game. He called off last Friday to watch game six of the second round. It was only by chance that I know (his friend Dan informed me, unaware of his betrayal), and I only know of this one instance. I was afraid to ask if there had been more.

Other signs include impaired judgment of the performances of the players, a preoccupation with each upcoming game, withdrawal from family and friends, and changes in personality, mood and behavior. Though usually those symptoms only occur from limited amounts of time, they have potentials for becoming obnoxious problems.

OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating ... a little.

But, should it bother me that some of his friends planned their Fantasy Baseball draft strategies more meticulously than their own weddings, husbands and wives included?

Should I be worried that the conversation of our last dinner date consisted of Brad quizzing me on my professional sports knowledge (of which I have very little) and then of him trying to teach me the names and positions of the Indians’ starting line-up?

Should I study the line-up so when he quizzes me again, my response doesn’t go something like this:

“Okay, I can give you Victor Martinez. Catcher. I think. Then there’s the guy all the ladies love, Mc…um. Mc…um. McGrady? Oh no, that’s his first name, Grady. My bad. I forgot. There’s only one other guy I remember talking about, the designated hitter. Well, crap. I can’t remember his name either.”

Honey, I’m trying to understand, I swear.

I just don’t get it. And it’s not that I don’t get sports. I love basketball and soccer. I love playing sports. I even enjoy watching college sports. But there’s just something about professional sports that doesn’t click. I don’t mind watching a game every now and then. I don’t have any trouble understanding the games. I’m just not interested.

But apparently, if I’m going to keep dating Brad, I’m going to have to learn to love Cleveland sports.

At least a little bit.