Standing tall after The Decision, a familiar gut punch staggers Cleveland faithful again

CLEVELAND – Four years ago, fans of karma and the Cavaliers alike descended on Flannery's Pub downtown here. It has a big wooden bar, a deep whiskey shelf and a view of Quicken Loans Arena out the front windows. They came that June night to root for a team not based in Cleveland win the NBA championship, allowing them to witness a player playing for a team not based in Cleveland, lose.

It was a slice of quintessential local fandom.

So, too, unfortunately, was Thursday night: same bar, same view of the Q, everything else different.

LeBron James, who they once mocked, once laughed at, once celebrated his comeuppance when his first year with the Miami Heat ended with a Finals loss to the Dallas Mavericks, was the prodigal son hero.

"For6given," read the T-shirts. "The Kingdom Restored."

The Cavs were back in the Finals. The city's famed championship drought, stretching back to the 1964 Browns, was being threatened. Cleveland led Golden State for much of the game. Across the bars and viewing parties here, it was electric.

Then midnight approached. Then overtime happened. Then Kyrie Irving's ankle flopped, his knee stressed and a night of renewal, of hope, of these wonderful spring basketball nights that had been taken from them, crumpled with the point guard.

There was no need to explain the significance here. There was no need to hold back on the dismay.

A thin, injury-ravaged, underdog team just lost one of its stars, then the game, 108-100.

If Irving's injury is significant, and across downtown understandably pessimistic Cavs fans believed it so, the long odds become longer. This is now LeBron on an island, surrounded by Splash Brothers.

"I'm going to cry after this game," one woman shouted.

She probably wouldn't be alone.

Cleveland knows its gut punches. The Drive. The Fumble. The Shot. The Move. The Decision.

The last one is the freshest wound, the one that did more than rob Cleveland of an expected title, but stripped it of nights like this, playoff runs like this, when an entire region can climb on a bandwagon and share in a common pursuit.

Yes, winning a title at last means everything here – you'd have to be, what, in your 60s to even remember that Browns' pre-Super Bowl NFL championship? It's the journey, though, not just the destination. It's downtown packed with people as the afternoon sun ducked over Lake Erie, even if the game was all the way out in California.

It's all races and ages and socioeconomics coming out of work, coming out of school, just coming out for a big party, for the big game. When LeBron left for four years that left, too. When he finally won a couple titles, for Miami, it was just spite on top of spit.

"I was on the air that night," said Anthony Lima of 92.3 The Fan of a program full of caller anger, insults and expletives. "Used the dump button [a lot]."

That a night like this could happen again, that LeBron would be leading the charge, seemed almost impossible at the time. Worse, Cleveland was left being viewed as some post-industrial wasteland, where even a kid from Akron would run from. It was a description that was as trite and inaccurate as suggesting everyone in the Bay Area is an Internet billionaire. They hated it here. Hated the lazy narrative. Hated the national perception that no one here was happy or successful or proud. They really hated the feeling that it wouldn't be easily reversed, that even something like a long lost championship was as distant as ever.

Then LeBron reappeared last summer and it all returned in a rush. Everything was possible. Yes, Golden State is deeper and more talented, but Cleveland had James, Cleveland had Kyrie, Cleveland had a shot.

Now, who knows? And here were the crowds, filling sidewalks and searching for their cars, hit by doom, hit by reality, hit by Cleveland, hit by the vision of Kyrie on crutches postgame, the rug pulled out on them.

"I've got to figure out what's going on," Irving said. "This one felt different."

It was like everything good that had returned, toppled in an instant. Stealing Game 1, seizing home court, became fear that "the ankle" or "the knee" is going to enter the Cleveland lexicon.

"It's very tough to see," James said. "To see him walk out of the locker room on crutches right now, it's a tough blow for our team."

That was a diplomatic way to put it. Out on the streets, the crowded, charged-up streets, there was a sense of panic and dread and resignation.

All this waiting, all this hoopla, all these decisions and drama and just like that, this seems impossible again, like when LeBron got the Cavs here in 2007 only to hit a San Antonio buzz-saw sweep. The King was still a kid then, 22 years old. Now he is 30 and the clock ticks.

"Unbelievable," one man said from the corner of Prospect and 4th. "It's just unbelievable."

"It's just one game," said his friend in a tone that suggested he didn't believe it himself.

He was right, though. It was just one game.

It's just they've seen that game around here, seen it too many times to count.