Some things are a whole lot better in theory than in practice.
Against my better judgment — but fully in line with my lifelong fanaticism for Cleveland sports — I headed north Wednesday into the madness known as the Cleveland Cavaliers NBA Championship victory parade, a little neighborhood soiree that drew, ahem, a million people.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Fun adventure.
Awful parade.
Worst parade in the history of parades.
Started later than a Sly & the Family Stone concert. Took an eternity between units. With the exception of a shirtless J.R. Smith and a shirtless Kyrie Irving, who were standing and highly animated, you could hardly see any of the Cavs, even from fairly close range.
For the average spectator, a sitting LeBron James may as well have been in the witness protection program.
So many nondescript floats passed by before the players arrived — Look! It’s a Cleveland Clinic van! Woo-hoo! — that the crowd around me took to chanting, “Who are you? Who are you?”
If you watched it on TV — wait, was anyone in Northeast Ohio not at the parade? — you don’t realize what it’s like to be one in a million.
It wasn’t pretty. But it also was a true adventure. And if you were accompanied by the right people, it was fun.
It will seem a lot more fun a few days from now when my legs stop burning.
Magical plan
Departing from Copley at 8 a.m. for an 11 a.m. event seemed a bit risky, given the pre-parade crowd estimates. But I had a secret strategy that surely no one else would think of.
I decided I’d drive to Hopkins airport and ride the rapid transit right to ground zero.
I had done that with marvelous success for another big parade in March 2012, the best St. Patrick’s Day combination ever of timing — a Saturday — and weather — sunny and 80.
That drew about 400,000, and the trains were crowded.
These trains were untouchable.
Approaching the Fast Park lot accompanied by two friends whom I was going to dazzle with my amazing plan, we saw a puzzling sight: Cars were pulling into the lot and then pulling right back out again.
We soon found out why: The wait for a rapid was five hours.
Five hours.
Time for Plan B.
I believe we were on to Plan D or E before I thought to head east on Interstate 480, go north on state Route 176 and try to park in Tremont.
Found a small church at West 14th and Starkweather with a tiny parking lot that was charging $5.
Seemed like a great deal. At least until the GPS indicated our walk across the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge would take 43 minutes.
Hey, the Cavs sucked it up when they had to; we would, too.
We joined a huge, happy flow of fans trucking down the middle of the road toward Progressive Field.
Next decision: Where to watch. The malls, site of the speeches, would surely be untouchable at this hour, so we settled on a location about one-third of the way into the parade route: East 9th and Prospect.
I insisted we take our positions by 10:45, figuring a parade that began at 11 a.m. would surely be coming by about 11:15.
Ha.
Slow motion
The first unit didn’t pass until 12:15, and the first player (J.R.) didn’t show up until 1:24. LeBron made his semi-appearance at 1:33.
Yes, we stood in the same spot for two hours and 45 minutes.
Unbeknown to us, crowds kept pushing into intersections ahead of us, blocking the parade route.
Hey, Cleveland. One word: barricades.
As the wait dragged on, everything began to seem forced, including the tepid “C-L-E, C-L-E” chants.
Give me spontaneity.
When I look back on the 2016 title, I will think first of Sunday night, of the absolutely unbelievable explosion of emotion I witnessed in the lobby of the Marriott Downtown at Key Center, where about 125 people had gathered to watch (and one of the few places without a long line for dinner), as well as the joyous madness out on the streets.
Toting a video camera (hello 1995), I walked around with my left hand raised and collected high-fives from perhaps 200 people — people of all shapes, sizes, colors and backgrounds.
I still get chills thinking about how folks who had nothing else in common became, at that moment, one.
For all their ills, that’s one thing big-time sports can do that nothing else can. And that’s worth a lot.
Now please excuse me while I go ice my feet.
Bob Dyer can be reached at 330-996-3580 or bdyer@thebeaconjournal.com. He also is on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bob.dyer.31.