CLEVELAND, Ohio - Jean Stephenson sought out the one picture on her phone that illustrated her love for baseball.

She had traveled nearly 2,400 miles to Culver City, Calif., from her home in Mentor, Ohio, to watch her grandson pitch. When Cameron and his team lost, the 10-year-old apologized.

"He said, 'Grandma, I'm so sorry,' " Stephenson said. "'You came all this way and you watched us lose.' "

Stephenson referred Cameron to the picture on her phone, a shot snapped from her seats in the first row behind first base at Progressive Field, with the sun disappearing in the distance. She had captured the photo on the final day of the previous regular season, an affair with nothing at stake.

"'I was there because I love the game,'" she told her grandson, "'and maybe I'll see another unassisted triple play. Maybe I'll see some amazing catch. Maybe I'll see some incredible home run.'"

Cameron Stephenson learned a valuable lesson about baseball and sports in general.

Stephenson's family has had season tickets to the Indians since 1961. Her father, David Leahy, first purchased the four seats when the family relocated from Chicago.

Now, 11 years after his passing and a little longer since the family whittled the package to just two seats, Stephenson maintains the account and attends about 50 games a year.

Why does she keep going back? Why do any Clevelanders keep going back? The Indians, Browns and Cavaliers -- the city's triumvirate of tribulation -- haven't produced a championship since 1964. What is it that lures residents to the three venues?

Does a tiny glimmer of hope outweigh the oft-suffocating sense of doubt? Or are all fans simply as carefree, optimistic and appreciative of every moment as Stephenson is?

"There was never, ever, ever a time when my dad wavered, and nor have I," she said.

*****

Lynn Bullock approached the ticket window at Cleveland Stadium, where a portly man sat, smoking a cigar and reading.

Bullock posed the innocent proposition: "I'd like to buy two box seats for season tickets to the Browns."

The man slowly raised his eyes before he unleashed: "Are you [bleeping] me? You have to be kidding. You want two box seats?"

"At that point," Bullock said, "I'm like, 'My God, what did I do?' He said, 'Son, let me tell you something. We have people on the waiting list for tickets for 14 or 15 years. People give them to their kids. They're passed down through the family. You have about as much chance of getting box seats to the Browns as…"

Bullock can't remember the man's choice of simile. After all, it has been 50 years since his wife won enough money in a bowling tournament to afford the couple a pair of season tickets.

He does, however, still remember vividly that 1964 season and the Browns' 27-0 triumph against the Baltimore Colts in the NFL Championship Game. In his mind, he can replay Browns defensive tackle Jim Kanicki making life difficult for Colts guard Jim Parker, an eventual Hall of Famer. He can picture each of Frank Ryan's three touchdown passes to receiver Gary Collins.

He can remember that despite having attended five decades worth of games. In 50 years, he has missed only two games, even though he spent the better part of one year working in London.

Since the Browns reached football's pinnacle during Bullock's first year as a season-ticket holder, the franchise has sputtered to a 320-378 record. Since the team returned in 1999, the mark stands at 77-163.

"If they'd even get to the Super Bowl," Bullock said, "this town would go ballistic."

So after 50 years, why do fans keep funneling through the turnstiles? Something about the tradition and history, the ties to the faint memories of a magical run a half-century ago continue to rope them back to Lake Erie's shore.

"Year in, year out, the [whining], moaning, they say they'll never watch another game, blah blah blah," Bullock said. "It sells out every year. Those are football fans."

Bullock totes his children and grandchildren to First Energy Stadium each Sunday. It's a bonding opportunity, a weekly ritual, a chance to watch the sport he cherishes and the team that hooked his interest from the get-go.

And he shares the experiences from better seats than he -- or that surly man at the ticket window -- ever could have imagined filling.

"I should go back," Bullock said, laughing, "and tell him, 'Well, I finally made it.' "

*****

Don't criticize the Cavaliers in front of Teena Copeland. It'll cost you.

A 14-year season-ticket holder, Copeland owns a piggy bank, adorned with the logo of the team she watches each winter and spring. Anytime she catches someone saying anything condemning of her Cavs, she requires the input of one quarter into the cache.

"We probably have about $5," Copeland said. "People know not to say anything bad about the Cavs around me."

That has proven more difficult in recent years, as the team has suffered through a rebuilding process since LeBron James bolted for the beach. It has not, however, kept Copeland from journeying 41 times each year to Quicken Loans Arena, where every employee on the route to her seats "knows my name and it just makes me feel special."

Owner Dan Gilbert and the Cavaliers celebrate after advancing to the NBA Finals in 2007.

And she has faith that the team will rebound. She can envision the day they do. The postseason runs during James' tenure in Cleveland offered a taste of the possibilities. Copeland, a retired teacher, can recall the night the Cavs knocked out the Detroit Pistons in 2007 to advance to the NBA Finals.

"You didn't want to leave," she said. "You stayed in The Q for a while and then you went outside and it seemed like everybody came downtown."

That hope -- that belief that that the Cavs can return to that stage -- keeps Copeland coming back.

To those who occupy the seats at the city's three professional sports venues, ambition and idealism counterbalance cynicism -- and, often, realism.

"It's a great desire from our fans," said former Cavs forward Campy Russell. "It's not a negative thing. It's all about a great desire, and anybody who's affiliated with any team in whatever form wants that for the team, for the community. I want to see the Cavs or even the Indians or Browns win a championship because I know what it means to me, what it means to our community."

All three teams have come close to replicating the feat of the '64 Browns. Those moments have teased what could actually materialize should one of the teams finally snap the 50-year hex.

"It would be an explosion of joy," Copeland said. "There would be parades and excitement. It would bring the city back. It would bring everybody back downtown, going to all of the businesses and the casino. It would just be wonderful for the city. It would help the economy. People would be back at the games."

No team came closer than the '90s Indians.

Bill Leahy, Stephenson's brother, attended the annual slate of postseason tilts with their father. Leahy said their father-son baseball banter rivaled "Fermi and Oppenheimer talking about nuclear physics."

The Indians went four decades without a playoff appearance. Finally, in 1995, the team gave the father and son more to discuss.

"To get in the playoffs after all those years of frustration was just a sensation I can't describe," Leahy said. "My dad and I would sit at the games and we thought we were dreaming. … It's just hard to describe how terrific that was, and if we took that next step and actually won the World Series, I think we would see joy and celebration beyond anything you could possibly imagine."

It's beyond anything many could imagine. That included Leahy in 1997. When the 11th inning of Game 7 arrived, he went to sleep. He couldn't stand the possibility -- and in his mind, it was a probability -- that the Indians were going to fall to the Marlins.

"I hate to say it, but I was right," Leahy said. "And that's the Cleveland attitude: 'I can't stand the pain of watching this fritter away.' I just felt something would go wrong. It was something beyond pessimism. It was kind of like a sixth sense, but I didn't feel the game was going to turn out the right way. And it didn't."

It's an attitude, fueled by five decades of frustration, that has fostered Cleveland sports the reputation of a national punching bag. When discussing the Browns' coaching search last month, Fox Sports 1 personality Andy Roddick said, "Cleveland's not a choice. It's something that happens to you." Even the hand sanitizer company Purell dug at the Browns via Twitter during the Super Bowl.

Within the city, though, there remain people who believe.

Bullock once saw a championship. Now 74, he yearns to see another.

"I hope before I leave, I can catch the second one," he said.

That dream, that unshakeable sense of optimism, keeps him invested.

"What does the word optimist mean?" Bullock quipped. "I guess it just means that despite anything, you're always hopeful at the beginning of every year. 'OK, this is going to be the year we finally turn it around.' "

The day will eventually arrive. The years upon years of watching or attending games will pay off. And in the meantime, the moments and memories amassed at the arena or ballpark or stadium will suffice.

Out beyond the center-field fence at Progressive Field, on the floor of Heritage Park, lies a brick with an etched message.

David F. Leahy. First row, first base. We miss you.

Their father never bore witness to a World Series triumph in Cleveland, but that's OK. He witnessed plenty of what he loved.

"I would love to go out there and say, 'We finally did it,' " Stephenson said. "But I think he would've loved the Wild Card Game. He would've loved to see an unassisted triple play. He loved the game."

Series continues tomorrow: Hazy flashbacks from members of the 1964 Browns remain Cleveland's most recent link to a championship celebration