Scalzo: Keeping heartache in the family

Some fathers pass down diabetes. Others hand down heart disease. My father bequeathed a love for Cleveland sports, a terrible, incurable illness that I contracted during childhood, a few years before Bernie’s knees (and shoulder and ankles) went south and a decade before Mesa threw a 1-2 slider to Charles Johnson in Game 7.

I don’t blame him. My dad may have born a year after the Indians’ last World Series victory but he grew up when the Browns were the Yankees of the NFL and the Steelers were the Browns of the NFL. Maybe that’s why he was an optimist at heart, the type of guy who, if you got your arm eaten by an alligator, he’d say, “Oh, it’ll grow back.”

Shoes too tight? “They’ll stretch out.”

Shoes too big? “You’ll grow into them.”

This got him in trouble — if he had $4 in his pocket, he was spending $5 because, hey, you can make more money tomorrow — but it was a good attitude to have when you’re listening to Herb Score trying to talk about Duane Kuiper trying to hit. Or Herb Score trying to talk about anything.

This is my 10th Father’s Day without my dad, who passed away from lung cancer in March of 2006. It’s also my first Father’s Day as a dad. My wife and I had twin girls in March and I can honestly say — with all heart-felt sincerity — that I am one baby away from moving to Mexico and changing my name to Jos Scalmirez. Have you ever tried to get two newborns to sleep at the same time? It’s like trying to move both your eyes outward at the same time, only if your eyes pooped their pants every few hours.

A few weeks ago, just before I left to cover the state track meet, I had this conversation with my wife:

ME: “So, I’ll be out of town, away from my family, in my own hotel room ...”

MY WIFE: “You’re going to sleep, aren’t you?”

(I did. And it was spectacular.)

Raising twin babies is like being a Cleveland fan. You struggle sleeping, you spend a lot of time getting pooped on and people pat you on the shoulder and say, “Wait ’til next year. It’ll be better.”

Oh, and one more thing: It’s all worth it. (Right?)

I’ve missed my dad the past two weeks. He would have loved this year’s Cavaliers and he would have believed, even when 78-year-old Mike Miller was getting actual playing time in the NBA Finals, that they would have found a way. I wish he could have seen them, but I take solace in knowing he passed away before he had to watch Nick Swisher hit. My girls will never get to meet their grandfather, but they’ll see him through my fingernail-chewing, my inside-of-a-pillowcase head of hair and my dignified sobbing in front of the television set every Sunday afternoon in the fall.

Despite all the heartache, I hope I can someday pass on my Cleveland fandom to my daughters. Hey, after all the 3 a.m. feedings, diaper changes and hissy fits, it’s the least I can do.

Joe Scalzo covers sports for The Vindicator. Write him at scalzo@vindy.com or follow him on Twitter @JoeScalzo1.