Cavaliers, Appreciation and Revelation

Danny Freaking Ferry. The bridge spanning the two most recent (semi)-glorious Cavs eras has a terminus at one end that looks a whole hell of a lot different than the other. At the entry point is Ferry's belated and generally underwhelming arrival in Cleveland as the centerpiece of the Ron Harper trade. At the other end, still under construction, is the most proactive executive tenure in Cleveland sports since Dick Jacobs and John Hart muscled the Indians into a big-market mirage in the mid and late 1990's.

Let's start at the beginning. Who knows if the Cavs would have ever gotten past the beastly Bulls, but the group led by Mark Price, Brad Daugherty, Larry Nance, Hot Rod Williams, Harper and others was a bona fide once-in-a-generation team. Unselfish to the core, understated from the top down (Gordan Gund, Wayne Embry, and Lenny Wilkens; all class, no flash, limited composite eyesight), this group collaboratively created some of the most effective ball this town will ever see.

Magic's Lakers were of the 1980's were Showtime, unadulterated jazz and rhythm. Jordan's Bulls were Jimi Hendrix Experience with a little more staying power, hard charging and relentless riffs, defined by the singular greatness of their namesake leader. The overpowering beats of the Bad Boy Pistons, like Public Enemy and NWA in the rap game, brought raw and harsh in abundance, and changed the scene. The Celtics, though past their prime by the time the Cavs came of age, were still omnipresent and selling out arenas, like the Stones. The Cavs produced consistent tunes but never reached the commercial or critical success of their NBA predecessors or peers. They were like Van Halen. You didn't want to admit you liked them, you'd grudgingly admit their skills, and after David Lee Roth left, they were clearly missing something.

Of course, this makes Ferry my Sammy Hagar in this hastily built and meandering analogy. Ill-equipped to be the front man, but still often full of piss and vinegar, neither complimented their parts to a degree that would ever be considered among the greats.

Ferry plugged away and had a long career, playing in more games than anyone ever had for the Wine and Gold and Blue and Orange and Baby Blue and Black Cavs. He found a niche in the league as a nice bit player, a forward with big spot-up range, durability, and tenacity. He never was the scorer he was supposed to be, and his athleticism was generally below NBA standards. Late in his career he became Nate Dogg, you let him croon on a couple of your tracks, but you'd never ask him to carry an album.

Fast forward to now. Ferry has positioned this team (I'm writing this right at the trade deadline, moves may or may not be made but Ferry has been active during the entire process) to win NBA titles this year and next. His steal of Mo Williams, acquisitions of studs like Delonte West, management of delicate situations of talented if incomplete players such as Andy Varejao and Sasha Pavlovic, and remaking this team as an assembly of complimentary parts to LeGod has been nothing short of brilliant.

The fact of the matter is that Danny Ferry has made me believe, mere months shy of my thirtieth birthday, that the Cavs will win the championship that the city of Cleveland and I have been craving since 1964. Yes, I was negative fifteen in 1964, but I remember those days and all of the putridity and mediocrity that has followed. Don't try to figure that out, just believe me.

I believe.