Browns Town

September 19, 2013

Football on Lake Erie, 2013. One and done.
A popular radio commercial for the Cleveland Indians used team manager Terry Francona to say, with some drama in his voice, “This is a baseball town!” Yet no one was fooled.
With the Tribe hunting for a wild card spot in the playoffs, what subject held sway with patrons at pubs and eateries around Geauga, on an unseasonably warm local weekend?
The poor Browns performance in week one of the NFL regular season, of course.
On the Northcoast, we have been talking about the glorious 80’s since… well, since the 80’s. Debating the virtue of championships won before the creation of the Superbowl has exhausted us, as we engage in verbal combat.
The Browns have eight rings. The Steelers have only six. But arguing the point with years of mediocrity having elapsed since the franchise was restored in 1999 has become a futile endeavor.
Many residents of our county and the region have either stopped following NFL football altogether, or surrendered their loyalty to the black and gold.
One local writer mused recently that the franchise was likely to be moved west, to Los Angeles. Such a relocation would serve the needs of the league. It would also mirror past woes for Cleveland, having lost the Rams franchise after a 1945 championship, to that same city. But talk of such infamy being repeated has seemed sacrilegious.
Until now.
While shopping for household goods, I visited a department store in the area. There, just inside the front doors, stood a display of Cleveland Browns merchandise. The entire lot was marked at a 20% discount.
I pondered for a moment, out of sheer disbelief. It was only one week into the regular season. Granted, quarterback Brandon Weeden had looked pitiful, throwing costly interceptions that stalled scoring drives.
But really, after ONE WEEK?
Muttering about Kosar, Mack, Byner, Langhorne, Ozzie Newsome and Webster Slaughter, I sat in my truck while fumbling through iPhone applications.
Somewhere in recent years, I remembered writing a short piece about the hard-nosed nature of those who reside in our sports locality.
I guessed that it must be posted somewhere on the Thoughts At Large blog. A bit of searching confirmed my belief. There, in virtual text form, was the article I remembered:
“CLEVELAND – Home of the Rock Hall, yet home also to gritty, under-appreciated citizens wallowing in urban despair. Our companies have been sold to outsiders seeking carpetbagger success. Our factories, breweries, and public institutions have closed. Our banks have been seized and re-sold by the government. Our sports teams have struggled to win a championship since the mid-60’s. Our elected officials have attracted FBI investigations and charges of outright corruption, while remaining indifferent. Our schools are crumbling. Our winters are filled with lake-effect snow and insane shifts in temperature. Our streets are overrun with beggars and petty criminals seeking hope.
And yet… we love this city. It is our home. Our identity is here… grappling with fate, sore from failure, bowed by circumstance. We breathe and ingest Cleveland every day of the year. Tough, scrappy, and able to survive. Not so notable as New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. Yet undeniably part of the American Experience.
We defend Cleveland — because this is who we are.”
For Ohio fans of the Pittsburgh Steelers, victory was only a short hop onto the bandwagon, away. Their traded loyalty yielded membership in a winner’s club of recent trophies. Yet Browns fans continued to endure the painful aftermath of Art Modell.
Strangely, though, this walk on hot coals was exactly the sort of exercise that mirrored the experience of living here, by the lake. With our banks and businesses owned by outsiders, while the city crumbled, the one thing we had left was our football team.
From Paul Brown forward, we always felt that the club belonged to blue-collar fans, not the greater association of wealthy owners. That mindset made us believe.
NFL football itself has become wildly successful, but likely a “scripted” sport like pro wrestling. Those watching the Baltimore Ravens cruise to a second Superbowl title last season, having existed only since the mid-90’s, could not ignore such feelings. With Ray Lewis retiring to a guaranteed job at ESPN and the league wanting to honor their brother, Modell, such an outcome seemed suspiciously convenient. Several better teams fell by the wayside, throughout playoff competition. The ultimate battle of Harbaugh brothers helped increase ratings across the nation. Everything worked according to plan, like a television miniseries.
But here at home, the misery continued.
Cleveland, after all these years, was still the town that failed to properly reward the league for locating their franchise on Lake Erie.
“Factory of sadness?” You betcha.
The Browns still carried our hopes, dreams, foibles, fears and anguish. They embodied the spirit of living here in a way that no other team could accomplish. Though kindred souls at the Indians and Cavaliers also endured the woeful existence of living here on the Northcoast, no other franchise could bear that burden with complete piety.
Their joy was our joy, however fleeting. And their suffering was our suffering.
I continued to ponder, while thinking of the team merchandise being offered at a 20 percent discount. The regular season had fifteen more weeks. A long time to prove that the torment imagined by fans was unfounded. An eternity in league terms. A span during which new legends could be created and old warriors might find their defeat.
One week in September had us guessing. A mere sixty minutes under the spotlight.