Kevin Love got really high this offseason (to train, that is)
October 8, 2015Video: LeBron James reveals his “Grail” to GQ Magazine
October 8, 2015Bump!
What? I’m awake. Is this the earthquake I’ve long been told is coming? Is my apartment being excavated for natural resources? Is this a Transformer attack?
Bu-bump!
Quick patdown. No signs of physical injury or leaking organs. I hear Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks bleating beautifully and what I think is an electric clavichord farting around in the background over Lindsey Buckingham’s rhythm guitar. An aching neck and an inverted state of slumber — as if someone had dumped me from my bed into a wheelbarrow — alert me that I’m not in the relative tranquility of my earth-adjacent apartment.
Bump!
Ding.
“Uhh, ladies and gentleman … .”
Somewhere from a not so distant dimension beyond the blue vinyl immediately in front of my still-inoperable eyes I hear the dull roar of a jet engine and the folksy, Chuck Yeager-inspired drawl of an airline pilot calling to me over the Fleetwood Mac blaring in my headphones.
Ahh, the classically calm pilot voice; chiming in to announce that the indomitable forces of Mother Nature are going to cause us some uhh light discomfort. The voice soothes the other passengers, reassures them that everything will be okay, as the pilot suppresses his natural inclination to tell us that things are getting a little dicey up there in the cockpit. Me? I’m not so sure that an especially belligerent thundercloud won’t tear this flying contraption down the middle like a perforated piece of notebook paper with all the fury of the wrath of God.
Where the captain’s faux Appalachian charm fails, Fleetwood Mac succeeds, so that the thought of slamming into a mountain doesn’t seem so likely even as they score the most violent turbulence I’ve yet experienced.1 Besides, the Browns play on Sunday, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna miss it.
Bu-bump!
“… we’ve hit a little patch of stormy weather, and are going to be experiencing some ahem mild turbulence … .”
Youuuuuuuuuuuu, you make loving fun …
“… so if you could just keep your tray tables upright and your seatbelts fastened … .”
It’s all I want to dooooo Youuuuuuuuu, you make loving fun …
Aside from the brief episode where I thought my airplane was going to be ripped apart and dumped into the upper atmosphere, I made it to Cleveland, Ohio, without too much hassle. My point of origin was San Diego, a city in the Southwestern corner of California that … well, hold that thought.
September 20, 2015: It’s a shade after 8 a.m. ET and a shade under four hours earlier than I’d like to be awake. But, the Browns kick off football season within the city limits of Cleveland in less than five hours, which motivates some people to do deranged things like wake up at the crack of dawn on their day off. Some people have God. Others have football.
The Browns began their season the preceding week, in a dismal 31-10 loss to the New York Jets in a game that gave little hope of incremental success in this season or any other. Browns fans had tempered their expectations for their homecoming somewhat in response to the Week 1 effort: promising themselves only a 2015 division title but no longer a Super Bowl.
The parking lot on the east bank of the Flats had all the sights and sounds of Cleveland that make me homesick: the smell of cooked meats, the crack of freshly opened beers, the chants of “here we go Brownies,” the barking of self-respecting adult men and women, the remembrance of mediocre players from years past on the backs of jerseys, the sound of a ball landing in a pair of outstretched hands. There are also the other charming characteristics of downtown Cleveland: a locked chain link gate preventing entry to a vacant lot; a pair of railroad tracks vanishing into a thicket of weeds and undergrowth, nature reclaiming what was once American enterprise’s. There’s also one visible portable latrine serving the thousand or so people hanging out in the area, though this is only a problem for the modest or those in need of toilet paper — two groups who probably have no business at a Browns tailgate to start.
This ritualistic gathering was situated under an overpass, which really is the most Cleveland thing I can think of. You can just easily answer every question about Cleveland with, “Well, the whole city’s underneath a railroad bridge. I’m not sure how but trust me.” One of the pillars holding up the bridge doubled as a urinal. The cloak of utopian communal living was laid gently over the signs of urban plight and industrial decay. It makes one homesick and nostalgic in a unique way: as if remembering the Thanksgiving dinner you cooked over a barrel fire in the back of a train boxcar.
Before the game, between the rude jokes and Cornhole, everyone always voices their predictions for the season and the day’s game, this one against the Tennessee Titans. “I think the Browns win today and go 8-8.” “I think Mariota torches us but they still win seven games.” “I think they win two games and lose by a hundred today.”
The walk to the stadium is nearly as entertaining as any sporting event one could concoct. If taking the right route to the stadium, one can see all manner of debauchery imaginable. Tailgating for a Browns game is well-practiced anarchy.
The morning and afternoon of the game against the Titans benefited from the probationary fall weather whose faint memory makes the drear of November, December, etc. especially cruel and depressing. It was a pristine sunny day on the south shore of Lake Erie, perhaps enhanced by a sweater but by no means demanding one. If it was a day unfit for water-skiing it was definitely one made for football. Once they emptied their pockets and sat through the metal detector scan as part of their dress rehearsal for the security state, Browns fans in the northwest corner of the stadium were treated to a stunning view of Lake Erie, the boats enjoying their last sail of the season filtering past, the stone retaining wall the only thing separating them from a great hunk of water that stretches to Canada.
The upper deck of the north stands provide a spectacular view of Cleveland’s downtown skyline, from city hall on the left to the Shoreway on the right. That Sunday, Key Bank Tower stood tall in the middle, never further away from scraping the sky than on this day when it seemed to stretch overhead infinite miles above. The players lined up on the field playing far below, at a distance that would be difficult for the visually challenged, but satisfactory for the game film-junkie with 20/20 vision. Home viewing on an HD television has come to surpass the in-game experience in many respects under many circumstances — but no electronics manufacturer has yet devised anything that can compete with this.
The Browns struck first against the Titans, when Johnny Manziel threw a 50-yard bomb to Travis Benjamin that was as surprising as a spaceship crash-landing in the end zone. After the amount of in-person football I’ve experienced, few individual plays are spectacles in their own right. But 50-yard passes are rare, and rarer still from the hands of a Browns quarterback, and the panorama of Manziel completing that long pass to Benjamin was the most visually dazzling play I had ever seen in FirstEnergy Stadium … to that point. It was a spectacular start.
The Browns continued to surprise throughout the first half, putting together another solid touchdown drive. Then, Travis Benjamin took a punt return to the end zone to give the Browns a shocking 21-0 lead over the Tennessee Titans. That high above the field, it certainly didn’t seem real. I had to go watch the broadcast version of the game (whilst getting a beverage) to verify I wasn’t hallucinating the whole thing. Sure enough, the Browns were up, 21-0.
The second half was largely unexciting, as the offense became boring and unimaginative. The Titans eventually drew within seven points after Joe Haden conceded inside leverage to Titans receiver Dorial Green-Beckham in man coverage, allowing Mariotta to throw a long in-cut for a touchdown. One could feel the muscles in the stadium draw tight.
“This game is starting to feel real Browns-y,” said one of the fellas seated behind us. All nearby solemnly agreed.
The Browns began the next possession with more conservative play calling. Although they were mounting a drive, having converted two first downs — a triumph in a half in which they were yet to score a single point — there was a certainty that one of the first down runs was going to implode, and the Browns would be faced with the prospect of burning Titans timeouts before punting, or letting their untamed quarterback roam the field in an attempt to extend the drive. Such was the case when the Browns were stopped for a two-yard gain near midfield.
This was the part in the movie where the Browns normally run the ball two more times, punt it, and allow the Titans to drive the length of the field and tie the game; or their quarterback loses motor functions and fumbles the ball after taking a huge sack.
Instead, Manziel rolled out of the pocket (to his left, no less) planted and heaved the ball like a javelin towards the eastern end zone. Travis Benjamin snatched it and glided into the end zone for the third time of the day. Game over. Browns win. Super Bowl expectations were restored, as jubilation took hold in the 5000-yard radius surrounding FirstEnergy Stadium for the remainder of the day. The Browns were 1-1.
Two weeks later, things had already begun to sour. The Browns didn’t use their, if not impressive then at least feisty victory against the Titans as a building block for season success. The Browns followed their arousing victory over Tennessee with a defensive dud of a performance against the Oakland Raiders in Cleveland that culminated in another entry in the long ledger of last-minute losses since 1999. Spoiler alert: it wouldn’t be the last such loss of the season.
The Browns entered game week against the San Diego Chargers two notches past “general manager suspended for sending text messages,” they had entered the dreaded “of interest to TMZ” territory on the Train Wreck/Dysfunction Scale, about one dong picture to a team staffer away from the season coming off the rails. Summarily, it felt like a win to move to 2-2 could breathe life into a team in need of it, while a loss to a vulnerable Chargers team to drop to 1-3 would tighten the noose on a team that hasn’t been more than a few feet from the gallows pole in two decades.
If a breath of fresh air is what a team is looking for, there are worse places to look for it than San Diego. The dependency and desperation that cold weather cities have for their football teams often lead the cities to suffocate their teams like Lennie does the soft rabbits in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I’m sure there are many well-intentioned football fans in Miami, but I’m going to have a hard time believing that the Dolphins affect the average fan more than the Eagles do in Philadelphia. Most of the features of cold weather cities aren’t unique to Cleveland, even if it may be more pronounced in Cleveland given the city’s fans and its … let’s go with “unfortunate” sports history.
San Diego sports suffer (or benefit, depending on your view) from the same mild interest and lack of general fervor present in other cities that results from good weather, an influx of transplants, and probably a lack of industrial jobs. In his classic basketball book The Breaks of the Game, David Halberstam wrote of San Diego, “It was a land governed by the assumption that life, like the weather itself, would always be good.”
In San Diego, Weather is almost always a kind friend inviting you outside. In Northeast Ohio, Weather is an assailant actively trying to kill you. Sure, there are sun-drenched 75 degree days in Ohio (and how glorious they are!) but you still never trust Weather in Ohio — because she’s got a dozen subzero days to torment you in a season that’s never far enough away. There’s a devoted contingent of Chargers fans, and the team means a lot to the city.2 But the football team doesn’t mean as much as it does to cold weather cities. It can’t mean as much. It’s not their fault.
So, with its nonviolent spectators, welcoming climate, and its football team trying to replace half of its offensive line one week after a thrashing from the mediocre Minnesota Vikings, San Diego seemed to provide as hospitable an environment as the Browns could have to escape the loving embrace of its home and earn a win on the road.
The day of the game was marked by a fairly festive environment outside Qualcomm Stadium, which is nestled in San Diego’s Mission Valley, a dull and joyless commercial center filled with shopping malls and condominiums for the type of people who like to shop at shopping malls. It’s a damn shame to have anything in Mission Valley in a city filled with likable and eclectic neighborhoods.3 Unlike FirstEnergy Stadium — which feels like an integral part of downtown Cleveland and is a reasonable distance from establishments abounding with beer and pizza — Qualcomm is in a giant parking lot that was probably once a great habitat for rattlesnakes. It seems an ideal spot for a concentration camp. If you want to have fun near Qualcomm Stadium, you’re going to have to make it yourself. On the bright side, there is an IKEA within walking distance.
Between Qualcomm Stadium’s lackluster pregame atmosphere and one mid-morning citation for violating San Diego Municipal Code Section 59.0502(f), it wasn’t long before I was ready for some Browns football.
While there was a lot of uncertainty over how the Browns would play on the road in San Diego, the fans left no doubt that they had done their part. Browns fans had come out in full force, staging a full-blown invasion of the Chargers home stadium. There were high-fives, Browns-clad babies, GV Art t-shirts, knit ponchos with Browns logos (a little Mexican flavor that close to the border is to be expected), Weeden jerseys — all the stuff you’d see in Cleveland but 2000 miles away in enemy territory.
There’s plenty to attribute the large pro-Browns showing to: the tepid local interest (for the reasons stated above), the desirability to travel to Southern California, the amount of Northeast Ohioans who have relocated to the West Coast (there’s a shocking amount), the unappealing game day atmosphere in a family-oriented place, but also a baffling amount of fealty by Browns fans to a franchise that so consistently disappoints. I won’t put a number on the percentage of Browns fans in Qualcomm Stadium on Sunday, but it was … substantial. Some would call it loyalty and others would call it madness, but the mental illness that is Browns fandom drives people to do incredible things.
As was to be predicted, the Browns lost the game in unpredictable fashion: this time on a last-second Chargers field goal after an offsides penalty gave kicker Josh Lambo a second opportunity to make a sub-40 yard field. One of the most unpleasant fans I’ve ever had as company for a sporting event taunted our predominantly pro-Browns section, manifesting the frustration he undoubtedly feels about his team’s stadium being overrun by opponent fans every Sunday. Look! — even in Southern California fans have raging insecurities that turn them into jackasses! Strangely, I found that comforting on behalf of both Cleveland and San Diego fans. We weren’t so different after all.
Browns fans filed out of the stadium, heads bowed in shame, for our team couldn’t lend any dignity to our invasion of the Chargers home. We weren’t righteous jerks. We were just jerks. The Browns fans caught plenty of disparaging remarks from their opponents, perhaps deservedly so. One Browns fan, in that acid-rain-cloud way only a Browns fan could, bragged, “Hey, at least our stadium’s nicer.” He was right.
Another Sunday for the annals of history. My family and friends soon departed San Diego for their respective homes, and I mine. Next week, my sister will pass the Browns stadium on the Shoreway as she drives to her job, and I’ll pass the Chargers stadium on I-8 East as I drive to mine. There’s a beautiful sort of symmetry to it. Maybe she’ll see FirstEnergy Stadium and think about the time we saw Johnny play hero-for-a-day together, and maybe I’ll see Qualcomm and think about the time our mother gave the finger to a rude Chargers fan in our section. And maybe we’ll both realize that being 1-3 ain’t so bad.
- Though the potential comedy of me meeting my demise during a Fleetwood Mac song isn’t lost on me. [↩]
- I’ve done my best to avoid talking about the possibility of the team moving in this post. It goes without saying that it would pain the city in an irreparable way. Cleveland’s familiar with this feeling. [↩]
- Petco Park, where the Padres play, is between downtown’s Gaslamp Quarter and East Village. You could find an excuse to complain about downtown San Diego, too, but there’s no denying there is a lot to do in the immediate vicinity of the stadium. Petco feels like a part of the city, and has actually revitalized what was once a run-down area. Qualcomm does not. [↩]
5 Comments
Those railroad tracks to nowhere are the perfect photographic analogy for the last 15 years for the Cleveland Browns!
Did you run in Ray at the beach?
Yeah, Qualcomm is lame. Like you said, bad location and the stadium itself is devoid of character and lacks the luxuries of the newer facilities. Ergo, LA Chargers…
PS. Loved how your mom gave a Chargers fan the finger. Awesome.
Kyle’s mom rocks !!!
In and of itself, that was some fine writing, Kyle.