Dogland

An empty lot sat on the corner of Janette and Bendemeer; uninhabited for the duration of my childhood. Christened “Dogland” by the neighborhood folk, ostensibly because for years it had been the convenient spot for the local canine population to take care of pressing matters, it evolved into the place where every local kid first realized he would be a professional athlete. By virtue of an intuitive grasp of eminent domain, it was requisitioned by a despotic government of nine year olds to serve as the Municipal Stadium of Cleveland Heights. We could count on our freezing red hands the surviving blades of grass and the routes drawn up on our palms had to account for all the rocks, ditches, and pits, but for us it was the most beautiful patch of land in the county.

Challengers from the surrounding suburbs, some notably more talented than us “Heightsers” came on our turf and were dispatched as a matter of course. It mattered not if they Danny Almonte’d us with their high school siblings or the unknown cousin from Florida who oddly began shaving in the fifth grade. We knew every inch of that dirt, every crest, every hill. It was more familiar to us than the aisles of the area candy shop. We beat ‘em every time, comfortably. Armed with just our No. 19 jerseys off the clearance racks at Value City we owned that corner lot for a decade. No refs and no crowds; just some kids fiercely protective of the home they had made for themselves.

I want that pride just once or twice a season from the Browns. I want to see a superior team come in off a long flight across the country and get their doors blown off. It happens all the time around the league. Why not us for a change. Get fired up about your field, your fans, and go about your business. Execute. Dominate. Win.

Outcomes in the NFL week to week are from the hardest predictions to make. Just watch the entrance of a bar on Sundays at 4. Like clockwork, the door will swing open violently and frustrated patrons will come streaming out. This will be accompanied by strings of vulgarity of great depth and eloquence, prose approaching Shakesperian heights that can only be composed through the inspiration of a late fumble at the goal line or a farcical defensive pass interference call on 4th and long. Yet just three short hours before, many of these same upright citizens entered oozing with the obnoxious self confidence that Browns fans know nothing about.

Beat writers everywhere sermonize on the perils of the “trap game”, “the hangover game”, and of course “the inferior team but it’s on the road game”. It seems like every week a team that was not supposed to compete puts it all together for a charmed sixty minutes and wins going away. One or two matchups a season every fan base gets a break. There is no need to will fluttering ducks through uprights, no sigh of relief when the zebras keep the laundry in their pockets. The game is in hand halfway through the third quarter. It is a week of rest. This is true of every outfit regardless of the talent or lack thereof on each respective roster. Everyone save the only one that matters.

There is buzzing about the potential of the Browns. After years of scouring every mall for miles and countless tears shed, we are the giddy teenage girl whose perfect prom dress may have finally been found. Yes, we still need to make the price tag fit the budget and finding matching shoes will be its own saga, but rays of light have finally broken through the cracks in the heavy wooden door.

I am really close to pushing my stack of chips to the middle of the table and challenging all comers. For the first time since Art Modell broke my 11 year old heart I am just about ready to be proud of my football team. I just need one more step. I need that game. Everyone wants to talk about changing the culture. That kind of game will show me that they are actually beginning to change it. Blow somebody out when no one saw it coming. One time is all I am asking for. Know what that feels like and you will be chasing that every damn week.

In the immortal words of Jarvis Landry: “That S!*# is F*****! contagious Bruh.”