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Game 6's are for High-Fives, Game 7's are for Hugs

WFNY friend Rohan Patil was experiencing everything that was the first championship for the City of Cleveland in 52 years. Posted below are his thoughts on how it unfurled.

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Rohan Patil is a creative gent who happens to be one of the people who has kept WFNY writer Michael Bode tied into the Cleveland sports upon his departure from Northeast Ohio. Long before there was even a waitingfornextyear.com, there has been a series of email chains among friends talking Cleveland sports. What lies below is one such message received in the aftermath of Game 7.

Kyrie Irving's shot went in.

I heard screaming. Screeching. A particular sound at a particular frequency I had never heard before in my life.

I've heard a crowd going wild. I've heard screaming and screeching.

But not like this sound.

I'm trying to find the words to describe this noise.

The whole game led to the final five minutes, which kept building suspense.

The missed shot after missed shot. Why do highlight videos only show the made shots? In this game, the misses were just as exciting as the makes.

And then, Kyrie F-ing Irving. Praised and maligned for his Hero Ball he became Mr. Hero himself. If that restaurant doesn't change the names of every item on their menu to honor him, then I don't know what they're doing.

The whole game I was hoping and believing.

But, when I heard that SCREAMING in the hotel bar...

It was like...Holy Shit! It's beginning to happen. It's really happening.

And, then Curry switches onto Love...and he cannot shake him. Passes the ball, gets it back immediately. Still, he cannot shake him as he forces up the kind of impossible shot he has made all season long. Except, he missed.

Kyrie races down the court. I'm waiting for the foul, or God forbid a turnover, and then he passes to LeBron for the MONSTER SLA....

And down he goes, writhing in agony. Could we bring in Mo Williams to shoot these? Is this how his career ends?

And here he was, needing to make just one, with a potentially injured hand. And he makes just one.

The Warriors race down the court just to have Curry miss again and I start crying immediately. LeBron is crying. Ty Lue - the guy who I identified the most with on this team - is SOBBING. I'm tearing up now writing this, trying to avoid getting the liquid on my tablet.

I was with a group of friends. One of them grabbed me and was like "Come on! We've got to go outside!"

But I just stood there, not moving, my eyes transfixed on the screen.

For some people, like my one friend that wasn't that into sports - not like us diehards that get it - winning the championship was exciting and fun, and a good reason to celebrate amongst a throng of people and experience something rare.

But for me, and I think that this might be true for some of you, the feeling that I had wasn't about the jubiliation at all.

I had joked before the game that I would be leading the riot. And after Game 6, I was intensely high-fiving EVERYBODY in the streets.

But now, it wasn't about celebrating or going crazy.

I was just thankful.

Other people in the bar would come up to me for a high five, and I would hug them instead.

Game 6's are for high-fives.

Game 7's are for hugs and tears.

And, for a final 53 seconds of screaming and wailing, high-pitched, incredible crescendo building inexorably to the inevitable finish.

This year, the NBA Finals were rigged by everything that is and forever will be Cleveland.


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