The Cleveland Cavaliers are NBA Champions. That’s a phrase I never thought I would be able to say, as someone who has bled Cavs colors since the days of Mike Mitchell and World B. Free.

It did not come easy. Down 3-1 and blown out in all three of those losses, it was very hard to still believe. This season was going to be another chapter in the voluminous litany of Cleveland sports failures.

The Game 5 win was expected. Cleveland had too much talent to get run with just one win in the series. The Game 6 blowout victory was almost surreal. Believeland was back, primed for one more colossal disappointment.

This weekend was full of nervous energy for Cleveland and for Cavaliers fans. I vacillated between brimming optimism and the overbearing dread that my sporting love would break my heart once again. All day Sunday I was bouncing around, anxious and almost flippantly cocky that the Cavs were finally going to end the misery.

My wife, who spent half her life in Northeast Ohio but was definitely not #AllIn216, just laughed at me. Why are you doing this to yourself when you know they’re going to blow it? Every time I tried to retort, I got the cold stare.

You know better. You know Cleveland cannot win.

I wanted to fight back but being who I am, I knew I had no leg to stand on. I’ve been a Cavaliers' diehard since the first time they wore the wine and gold. Although most folks know me for my NFL and Detroit Lions love (long story), people who know me well know the Cavs have always been the apple of my sporting eye.

Just getting to tipoff was difficult. Thankfully Father’s Day distracted me, as well as tens of thousands of other Northeast Ohio natives struggling with the hope and fear. Do I even dare watch and have my dreams shattered once again?

The first half was close, though not necessarily well-played by either team. Once it was pretty clear the game was going to come down to the wire, the butterflies fluttered hard in the stomach.

Halftime was where I finally dialed it down a notch. Of course the war inside my head was still waging, but I distracted myself with some US Women’s National Volleyball team action. Then I reopened my social media feeds and the wild anxiety came back in full swing.

The Cavs shot 1-for-14 from 3 and the bench was mostly lousy, yet they’re only down 7. No way will they play that poorly again on offense. But…

Draymond Green is on fire and dominating the action. When he does that, Golden State is unbeatable.

I wandered into the kitchen, filled a giant glass of water and drank about 2 ounces before pouring the rest all over my head to try and cool the nerves.

JR Smith brought the Cavs roaring back, but when he botched a breakaway layup and then Curry hit a three when Kyrie chose poorly off the screen on the next possession to push the lead back out, I knew it was over. The resignation was strangely painless at this point; I embraced the radical acceptance and chose to enjoy seeing the most fun Cavaliers team since the Price/Daugherty heyday finish out the best season in franchise history.

Of course it wasn’t nearly that easy. Kyrie Irving coming alive and the Cavs racing out to a 6-point lead definitely stoked the fires of hope, but I knew it was just a temporary aberration. No way were the Cavs going to overcome the lethal combination of Klay Thompson and Draymond Green.

It was a fascinating, entertaining game. The teams traded small runs and the lead several times. I didn’t enjoy one second of it, knowing the inevitable soul-crushing defeat was coming. After the Warriors regained the lead at 85-83, my mind raced for scenarios on how the Cavs would lose. Would it be…

• LeBron missing an open three?
• Kevin Love blowing a defensive assignment and Green icing the title on it?
• Shaun Livingston, a former Cavalier, nailing a runner as time expired?

Even when Kyrie hit the 3 to break the tie, my stomach was in knots. This will only make the inevitable collapse even more painful, more devastating.

Except fate, finally, was not a cruel mistress. She kissed those of us from the 216, the 330, the 440, even the 419 and 614.

I’ve lived in them all. Being from Northeast Ohio is indescribably complex. There is such an odd juxtaposition of area pride and self-loathing. Sports pain is an acute part of our persona, something deeply ingrained. We hate it, yet we celebrate it and protect it. Nobody else can have it or possibly understand it unless you’ve experienced it. Even though I moved away 17 years ago, the desperate longing and resigned sense of dreadful doom has only grown.

Now it’s all gone. I’m writing this about an hour after the final buzzer and I’m still crying. The joy, the relief, the exasperation, the unprecedented celebration, it’s all almost too much

My Facebook feed is (mercifully) devoid of anything political. It’s #AllIn216 and it’s an insane virtual party. I can only imagine what it’s like on the streets of my home city tonight. Lebron collapsing to the court in tears, overjoyed and spent, that was all of us.

I’ll make the five-hour pilgrimage for the victory parade. I’m taking my kids with me to experience it, even though they’re still in school. They might never get to see anything like this again. Moreover, I want them to share in something that is so important to who I am. I don’t care they’re not Cavaliers fans; this is living history that they must witness.

The natural media cycle must spin forward. Does LeBron leave? What happens with Love, and with aged veterans like Richard Jefferson? What is the historical significance of LeBron’s accomplishment? On the flip side, what does this mean for the Warriors? How do we contextualize Steph Curry’s awful play in crunch time?

None of that matters for anyone wearing wine and gold right now. None of it. The Indians could move to Panama and LeBron could announce he’s going to the Knicks and the smile is not leaving our faces. Nothing will ever take this glorious moment, this cathartic setting of the unquenchable, overwhelming thirst. It’s the greatest Father’s Day ever. Thank you LeBron, thank you Kyrie, thank you Dan Gilbert.