A Browns Sunday

I’m early. This is nothing new; I am pathologically on time for things. So much so, that I’d rather pace around a city block for half an hour than arrive five minutes late for anything, even something as mundane as a date with my brother and a couple friends to watch the Browns at a bar on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I’m especially early today because I’ve just flown back to New York from visiting my folks in Youngstown over Thanksgiving, and rather than make the trek back to my place in Brooklyn and drop off my luggage, I’ve decided to simply schlep things around all day. That way, I’ll be sure not to be late.

            As I’m walking around the block for the third time, it occurs to me that I have every reason to be reticent to sit down to watch the Browns play the Steelers. These games are usually disasters. The Steelers are worlds better than the Browns, both as a team this year and as a franchise over the last 15. I like to think of them as our rivals, but that implies an equal chance of winning. I’d say the Browns are more like a cautionary tale to Steelers fans: “Remember, kids, if your team’s owner is more interested in British soccer than in taking any kind of responsibility for the team’s record, that’s not good”. There but for the grace go you, Pittsburgh.

            Only now, the Browns have an owner who’s got a past with our nemesis (Jimmy Haslam, baron of truck stops and founder of ex-Steelers Fans Anonymous), who’s been caught by TV cameras scowling as the Browns blunder through yet another close loss, prompting homegrown hero Josh Cribbs to quip, “We almost always almost win.” Now it seems like there may be a glimmer of hope on the horizon, though I am not about to arrive early for the playoff ticket line just yet.

            I settle in with my sympathizers, and thankfully neither the Jets nor Giants are playing a 1:00 game today, which means the bar is relatively sedate. Then, in walks a 40-something woman wearing a Troy Polamalu jersey, a rhinestone tiara and a white sash that bleats, “It’s My Birthday!” The bar ceases to be sedate. Birthday Princess is making her presence known by gleefully exemplifying all the stereotypes that Browns fans like to attach to Steelers fans, namely: they are loud, trollish front-runners who would bolt at the first sign of mediocrity. Right on cue, Brandon Weeden throws a pick-six to Lawrence Timmons, and Birthday Princess is ear-splittingly pleased.

            The game devolves into a sloppy give-and-take: the Steelers give the Browns four games’ worth of turnovers, and the Browns take the opportunity to nearly waste all of them. Pittsburgh actually leads by a point at the half despite three awful giveaways, and Birthday Princess’s special day seems to be going wonderfully. Meanwhile, I’ve started watching the clock, because I have to leave the bar right at the stroke of 4, or else I’ll risk being late to a gig, which is, of course, unthinkable.

            All of the Steelers’ running backs fumble. All of them. Grizzled veteran Charlie Batch acts like a generous uncle and hands the Browns a couple gift-wrapped footballs. Still, the Browns lead by less than a touchdown as the game winds down, and my time is up. I have to go, or I will feel rushed and stressed, like every Browns quarterback ever. I tell my brother to text me if we fuck it up. He nods resignedly and begins tapping on his cell phone, for reasons that I presume are unrelated.

            I rush to the subway, keeping one hand in my pocket, just in case. The train arrives promptly and I try to relax, think about something else, try not revisit the dismal record of the Browns in games decided by a touchdown or less. Don’t dwell on the dozens of Sundays that have ended in soul-searching bewilderment as the team finds new and interesting ways to blow it. I was only a toddler during the Drive, the Fumble, the Shot. I was a dewy-eyed preteen during the Mesa. I was a raging, vengeful mess during the Decision. This Sunday, a worthless game in a lost season against a second-string Steelers team? Nothing compared to all that. I’m thankful there’s no cellphone reception in the subway.

            As soon as I get above ground, the phone nudges my leg. “We may have fucked it up,” it chirps. It doesn’t say how, but I can imagine. It’s probably a pretty mundane choke job, though maybe we’ve come up with some new innovation in losing. In spite of everything, we are nothing if not innovative. Maybe a flock of seagulls has descended on the stadium and nested in Troy Polamalu’s hair, resulting in a disqualification. Maybe a desperate Browns drive was derailed by a penalty for excessive baldness against offensive coordinator Brad Childress. Maybe something that doesn’t involve hair, I don’t know. But somehow, we’ve done it again.

            The phone buzzes again. “Nevermind. We won.” Relief washes over me, and as I walk into the gig (it’s at a church, of course), I allow that little nugget of hope that maybe things are getting better to solidify, the tiniest bit. Still, I can’t help but wonder how we might have gone about blowing this one. I guess I’ll never know. At least I’m early.