Walking away from the Q late last May following the Cavs having their hard-earned home-court advantage stripped from them by the Orlando Magic, I passed the House of Blues and heard the melancholy, honky-tonk strains of the Rolling Stones’ classic “Dead Flowers” echoing down E. 4th Street’s early-summer stickiness. An appropriate tune for a well-worn path. Ten days later it was all over but the primal screaming

We all know the saga that in Cleveland such endings are inevitable. A city’s people look, with desperation-bordering-on-terror, for salvation through the efforts of a sports team and are crushed and ripped back to the reality of a region rife with job losses, crime and poverty. What’s more, buried beneath the froth of hunger mixed with hope, they must know that inevitably they will be confronted  — somewhere in the middle of the night — by the hollow realization that their dreamed-of championship won’t ever really assuage their own psychic yearning.

But enough of that already. Of course a sports title won’t solve any societal issues or slay any personal demons. But what’s the harm in daydreaming? And, on the flip side, enough of the hand-wringing over our sports obsessions or the media’s allegedly misplaced priorities in paying undue attention to such things as championship runs — and the illusionary civic connectedness it provides — while the region keeps going to hell in a hand-basket.

So bring on this most dangerous of all Cavalier seasons — one with the franchise hanging in the balance. Let the tension build and the questions be answered. Does Shaq have anything left in his massive tank? Will he clog up the middle, preventing LeBron’s lightning drives to the hoop? Will he botch the pick and roll defense and allow a bevy of back-door baskets? What about off the court? Will the mammoth ego’d O’Neal grow jealous of LeBron and use his acidic tongue to slice and dice the ever-courteous James.

Can Zydrunas Ilgauskas adjust to the role of coming off the bench? Can he and Shaq play together? Will Anderson Varejao be able to justify his long-term contract and prove worthy of starter minutes? Can Mo Williams bounce back from his sub-par performance in last year’s playoffs? Will Boobie Gibson be able to guard anyone? Will Anthony Parker and Jamario Moon prove to be valuable role players? Can J.J. Hickson contribute at all?

And then of course there’s the huge issue of Delonte West who, with his defensive versatility and ability to penetrate and create his own shot, was arguably the team’s second most valuable player in the playoffs last year. Is he a ticking time bomb whose bipolar condition will keep getting worse? Will the uncertainty surrounding his availability destroy team chemistry. If he can’t play this season, what moves will need to be made to compensate for his loss?

And if the Shaq experiment fizzles, will a trade-deadline deal be able to save the season? Should Ilgauskas, with his huge expiring contract, be traded for, say, Golden State’s disgruntled Stephen Jackson? If things start to go south, will Mike Brown crumble? On top of all these questions, there’s the grim reality that even if everything goes right, the Cavaliers may not really good enough to beat Boston or Orlando for the Eastern Conference title, let alone topple the defending champion Lakers if they are fortunate enough to get to the NBA Finals. Then there’s the small matter of James being in the last year of his contract and the media scrutinizing every word he says and every article of clothing he wears looking for a hint that he may be heading for greener pastures next year, leaving the Cavalier franchise in ruin and supplying the death blow to a fandom that has  already taken up permanent residence in the Twilight Zone.

With the Cavs already struggling in the first week of the season, it’s clear that lying ahead this year is a ton of uncertainty and a long arduous road filled with recurring nightmares. So once again trembling fans will be spending more time — while hoping against hope for glory — anticipating the possibility of a heartbreaking collapse; more time being subjected to local media dwelling on a title run instead of the city’s travails; more time forming transitory alliances — birthed by mutual anguish — with strangers; and more time still, in spite of a lifetime of disappointment, dreamily looking to a sports team for civic and personal redemption,

For such a fleeting diversion from life’s day-in-day-out slings and arrows, I can only say, “Thank heaven for small favors.”