Indulging in the spoils of a Cleveland Browns win

I woke up Sunday morning with a strong hunger in my belly. For starters, it had been nine months since the Cleveland Browns hosted a meaningful game at FirstEnergy Stadium. Nine months is a long time. Ask all of those fans who got prematurely excited when the Browns sat at 4-5 during last year’s bye week just how much can happen over the course of nine months. Nonetheless, the day was finally here, opening day, a fresh start to a new season at home for the Cleveland Browns. The previous week in Pittsburgh was an appetizer into the 2014 season, with a first half that made me question why I continue to come back to this rundown restaurant every fall and a second half that reminded me just how much I love jalapeño poppers. Still, no matter how many of those decadently fried, cream cheese stuffed peppers you eat there is always room for the main course.

So I set out with a band of degenerates I call my friends at 7 a.m. to meet up at our tailgate spot in the Muni Lot, dreaming the day at hand would satisfy my hunger. The hosts of the tailgate had been in line for a spot since 2 a.m. and we arrived just in time to do some light lifting and help set up. As the first beers were being poured and the speaker system was being assembled, a catastrophe arose: The generator for the sound system would not start, and our tailgate neighbors were blasting Metallica accompanied by what can only be described as the strip club DJ horn-ruining song after song with the DJ putting his own “spin” on classics. But out of dire situations rise great men. So at 7:30 in the morning our hero took an Uber from the Muni Lot to Home Depot, bought a new generator, and Ubered back in less than an hour, saving us from four hours of music hell.

Thank you, Uber.

Two hours and six beers later it seemed almost unfathomable to think that anything other than a victory would be coming the Browns way. The good times, they were a’flowing. If the league handed out Super Bowls based off of vehicles converted for tailgates per capita, I’d be hard pressed to think Cleveland wouldn’t have a fistful of jewelry by now. Long busses. Short busses. Limo busses. Hearses. Hitched trailers. Driven trailers. You name it, there was at least one, and it was painted orange and was packed full of enough people to make that price-gouging price per space more reasonable.

With the tailgate in full swing, our feast began. Rarely do I dine on lobster, but when I do there’s no better place to consume then on the curb of a parking lot surrounded by thousands of sophisticated friends wearing shirts that range from “Free Josh Gordon”, “Browns. Just Do it. Please.” or a shirt fit only for someone who is a huge fan of Karlos Dansby, Joe Haden, Paul Kruger and co. which reads “She Loves the D”.

After some lobster, clams, chicken, beef tenderloin, pork tenderloin, JALEPENO POPPERS, and Italian sausages with pizza as the bun, I was warmed up, but still not quite satisfied. Shoveling food and beer in your mouth all morning as if you’re the new host of Man vs. Food is all good and fun but if your team gets run off the field, you feel a little less like a medieval King and a little more like Elvis the King circa 1976.

Being the dutiful fans we are, my buddy and I managed to leave the tailgate plenty early and marched ourselves to our seats with time to spare before the national anthem—a burden and a responsibility for all the ticket holding tailgating faithful. Thanks to the Browns winning the coin toss and deferring to the second half, I immediately found myself out of my seat and on my feet, working off some of the thousands of calories I’d inhaled throughout the morning. The crowd, champing at the bit to make an impact on the game let Brees hear it as the powerful Saints offense made their way onto the field. With barks and whistles to go along with hands being clapped and seats being pounded the South endzone fed off the play the Browns’ D and the Browns’ D fed off the crowd. Back-to-back three-and-outs to start the game, Brees not being ready for a snap, two burned timeouts, a false start, and Paul Kruger hitting Brees like the hammer of Thor had the whole stadium feeling like the Dawg Pound in the first quarter.

As the game went on, you knew Drew Brees wouldn’t be held to one passing yard forever, but the way the team was flying around on defense and special teams and the way in which Hawkins and Barnidge embraced after a big third down made it evident that like the fans, this team was hungry. Kudos to Mike Pettine, who deserved a chunk of the blame for not having his team ready out of the gate against Pittsburgh, because the team’s energy level was night and day different than it was in Week 2 in Pittsburgh.

The game traveled back and forth, but as the end drew nearer as a Browns fan you couldn’t help but feel as if you were grasping at sand being poured between your fingers. The thought that a botched extra point would be just another chapter in the Factory of Sadness was inescapable. As the Saints marched into Browns territory, up a point with the clock under six minutes to play, it felt all to familiar. Then, Karlos Dansby sacked Brees, driving the Saints back out of field goal range, forcing a punt, and all of a sudden everything seemed serendipitous.

The Saint Ignatius kid, in front of all of his friends, family, former classmates, and all of us who are just a degree or two of separation from knowing him had the ball in his hands with a chance to send his city into a party like it was 1989. He delivered a strike to Gary Barnidge on fourth down that would make Chuck Kyle and all other “Men of Ignatius” proud. He found Miles Austin on the sidelines with the cool of a kid lighting up Shaker Heights on his way to a USA TODAY prep player of the week honor. And most importantly, he willed a 28-yard completion into the stumbling arms of Andrew Hawkins to set up Billy Cundiff with a chip shot for the win.

When the kick went through the uprights, I found myself in the middle of a three-row group hug. It was only Week 2 of the season, but it felt like we had just earned a trip to play for The Lombardi Trophy. Exiting the stadium, strangers high fived, at least one couple was swapping spit, and my buddy had zero problem convincing me to continue our celebrating onto West 6th Street.

Twelve hours after I sprang out of bed, I found myself in an Uber (thanks again!) with my belt now two notches looser and my B.A.C. level surely a tenth or so higher. I was full and I was satisfied. However, once you throw a dog a bone, he’ll surely come back for more. Now that I’ve had a couple days to digest the victory, my belt is back to it’s normal length, and all I can think about is how beatable Baltimore is.

I’m still hungry.