Three years ago the Cleveland Browns did not win a single game. They went 0-16, and joined the the 1960 Dallas Cowboys (0-11-1), the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers (0-14), the 1982 Baltimore Colts (0-8-1) and the 2008 Detroit Lions (0-16) as the only teams to notch a winless season in the NFL record books. Last week the (10-4) Browns had a chance to clinch a playoff spot if they could just get past the (1-13) New York Jets. Blame it on 2020… Blame it on COVID…Blame it on the NFL…Chalk it up to the Browns… Either way, the Browns lost a game to the Jets that they should have won; a game that would have ended the longest post-season drought in NFL history, and propelled them into the playoffs for the first time since they were the AFC Wild Card Team in 2002. The Browns lost, and now all hope of making it to the post season for the first time in 18 years depends on the outcome of today’s season finale against the AFC North Division champs and arch rivals, Pittsburgh Steelers. The Steelers are leaving many of their starting players in Pittsburgh today, and like every other Browns fan, that's what worries me… A little.
As many of you know, I have been a Cleveland Browns fan all my life. They’ve been “my team” ever since I was old enough to accompany my father across the street to Dick Danhoffer’s house on Sunday afternoons where, as the only kid in the room, I sat cross legged on the floor between the tv and a group of neighborhood men who smoked, drank and yelled their way through four quarters of Sunday afternoon football. The coffee table behind me was littered with chips, ash trays, and stubby brown bottles of Strohs beer. A nicotine haze filled the air and probably contributed to the adrenaline rush I felt for being allowed inside the rowdy inner sanctum of adulthood.
I knew my place as an underaged guest though. I provided no novice sports commentary, and I refrained from speaking unless spoken to. I kept my eyes glued on the TV screen in front of me and my ears attuned to the collage of colorful curses flying in from over my shoulder behind me. Who knew there were so many different ways for quarterback Frank Ryan to be an asshole?
Amidst all the noise in the room, however, the most important sound for me to listen for was the clink of a wedding ring on an empty beer bottle. That was the signal for me to leap up without blocking anyone’s view of the game, dash downstairs to the Danhoffer basement, and grab an ice-cold Strohs from the beer fridge. Then, with Leroy Kelly-like moves, I would cradle the bottle in my arms, juke my way past Freckles—the Danhoffer’s Dalmatian who had one blue eye that always stayed open even when he was asleep—streak through the kitchen, weave around the dining room furniture, and deliver the beer to whoever had made the coded call for the Beer Man. With a room full of thirsty men I probably spent more time on the run making beer deliveries than I did watching the game, but my usefulness secured me a recurring invitation to accompany my dad each week, and my love for the Browns was born — along with respect for the artistry of profanity.
I knew my place as an underaged guest though. I provided no novice sports commentary, and I refrained from speaking unless spoken to. I kept my eyes glued on the TV screen in front of me and my ears attuned to the collage of colorful curses flying in from over my shoulder behind me. Who knew there were so many different ways for quarterback Frank Ryan to be an asshole?
Amidst all the noise in the room, however, the most important sound for me to listen for was the clink of a wedding ring on an empty beer bottle. That was the signal for me to leap up without blocking anyone’s view of the game, dash downstairs to the Danhoffer basement, and grab an ice-cold Strohs from the beer fridge. Then, with Leroy Kelly-like moves, I would cradle the bottle in my arms, juke my way past Freckles—the Danhoffer’s Dalmatian who had one blue eye that always stayed open even when he was asleep—streak through the kitchen, weave around the dining room furniture, and deliver the beer to whoever had made the coded call for the Beer Man. With a room full of thirsty men I probably spent more time on the run making beer deliveries than I did watching the game, but my usefulness secured me a recurring invitation to accompany my dad each week, and my love for the Browns was born — along with respect for the artistry of profanity.
My first trip downtown to see the Browns play was either December 5, 1965 or November 26, 1967. Somewhere in our family photo albums is a newspaper clipping from The Cleveland Press that pinpoints the date my memory is a little fuzzy on. The article describes a bitter cold victory against the Washington Redskins, and is accompanied by a photo with a circle drawn around the blurry bundled mass of humanity in the stands. An arrow points from the circle to a handwritten caption that reads: “John’s first Brown’s game” — as if anybody is remotely identifiable in the photo, let alone the kid dressed like Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story. Of course what I do remember is preparing for the game like I was about to undertake an arctic expedition, drinking hot chocolate out of a thermos, and being too short to see most of the action that roused the fans around me to leap up from their seats every time something exciting happened. Still, I was at a professional football game, sandwiched in between the stale beer warmth of thousands of cheering, jeering Browns fans, watching our team win. Our team from Cleveland. What more could a kid ask for? Apparently my grandmother thought it was matching Browns pajamas for my brother and I at Christmas.
Why am I still a Browns fan after all these years? I’m not entirely sure. In my lifetime they have more often than not been a greater source of anxiety, frustration, disappointment, and embarrassment than cause for joyful celebration. Over the past 50 years the adrenaline rush of victory has been sporadic and elusive at best. And yet when my sons were little boys and they asked, “Dad, do we have to be Browns fans too.” I pointed the remote control at another televised loss, fired and said, “No, of course your can support any team you want. The Browns are my team and I’m gonna stick with them no matter what. I’m from Cleveland. It’s in my blood. But here’s the deal. I promise you. When the Brown’s do finally have a winning season—and a team that can capture a championship—it’s going to be glorious, and everyone is going to want to be part of it.”
So what happens today after the Browns win/lose against the Steelers? Life goes on. The earth keeps spinning. We hope anew. Like everything else in our lives there's always the promise of "next time" — next season. Imagine if there wasn’t.
And after that? I dunno, we head to Tampa for the Super Bowl and hell gets a few degrees cooler? A kid can dream, right?
Todd Rundgren has always been a Cleveland favorite. I saw him perform countless times in every size venue around town. After many years I saw him perform here in Maryland at Strathmore. Gone were the crazy costumes, glass guitars and Egyptian stage props, but he was just as entertaining as I remembered. Moreover I was pleased to see he still ends his concerts with a song that has always felt a little like a Cleveland anthem since the first time I heard it as an encore in The Cleveland Coliseum. “Just One Victory” is my wish for today’s game against the Steelers, but more importantly I think this Happy Medium Song of the Day captures the perfect sentiment for the dawn of a new year bursting with potential and surprises like the beginning of every football season. So, Happy New Year everyone, and as the advertising guru David Olgivy once said, "Play to win, but enjoy the fun."
And after that? I dunno, we head to Tampa for the Super Bowl and hell gets a few degrees cooler? A kid can dream, right?
Todd Rundgren has always been a Cleveland favorite. I saw him perform countless times in every size venue around town. After many years I saw him perform here in Maryland at Strathmore. Gone were the crazy costumes, glass guitars and Egyptian stage props, but he was just as entertaining as I remembered. Moreover I was pleased to see he still ends his concerts with a song that has always felt a little like a Cleveland anthem since the first time I heard it as an encore in The Cleveland Coliseum. “Just One Victory” is my wish for today’s game against the Steelers, but more importantly I think this Happy Medium Song of the Day captures the perfect sentiment for the dawn of a new year bursting with potential and surprises like the beginning of every football season. So, Happy New Year everyone, and as the advertising guru David Olgivy once said, "Play to win, but enjoy the fun."