I am 13 years old.
Pause.
I know. I need this. Stay with me, please.
I am 13 years old. Well, I turn 14 in less than a week. I have asked my parents for a microscope set for my birthday. Actually, I asked them for an Electronic Lego Set, which you can use to build an actual working car (!), but I know that’s too expensive. The microscope set, which includes six rocks and a few slides, is more affordable and more educational. Maybe I can be a scientist someday.
I must know, deep down, that I’ll never be a scientist.
My father is down in North Carolina, working his new factory job. He will send for us soon. On the phone, he reminds me that I’m the man of the house.
I have no idea what this means.
I only know that we’re moving soon.
It’s snowing, of course. Hey, this is Cleveland. The highest snowdrifts on the sides of Warrendale Road are almost as tall as I am, and they are black and gray after being sprayed with slush by passing car tires. I have ten or so houses left on my paper route. The temperature is in the teens. The cold wind makes it feel much colder.
But I feel warm inside. I feel happy inside.
I look again at the editorial cartoon in The Cleveland Press.
I’m 13-years old, and I am a less-than-mediocre student, and I’m the smallest kid in my class, and I wear glasses so thick that they make my eyeballs look huge, and I’m about to move South, where classmates keep insisting that people don’t wear shoes, and I will be the youngest person in high school. I already feel lost.
But no, not today. Today I feel great.
The Cleveland Browns, my Cleveland Browns, are going to play the Oakland Raiders in the playoffs, and they’re going to win, of course they’re going to win, because they’re the Kardiac Kids. They’ve found ways to win all year in the final minutes. The city, my city, is jumping. On the radio, they’re playing the “Twelve Days of a Cleveland Browns Christmas,” even though it’s the new year.
On the 12th day of Christmas, Art Modell gave to me …
We still loved Art Modell then. It was that long ago.
The Browns in the playoffs!
Dave Logan leapin’
Doug Dieken blockin’
DeLeone a hikin’
Kardiac Kids a winnin’
Darden interceptin’
Newsome a catchin’
Both the Pruitts moves!
Alzado attackin’
Brian Sipe a passin’
Don Cockroft kickin’
On a Rutigliano Super Bowl team!
Of course, I know every word. I add my own lyrics. Reggie Rucker flyin’! Clay Matthews tacklin’! Dino Hall returnin’! Calvin Hill a leadin’! I have never loved a team like that, and, though I don’t know it yet, I will never love a team quite like that again because I will never again be 13 and frightened of everything, and surrounded by a city so desperate for a win. Leading up to that Raiders game, I think about the Cleveland Browns every waking moment, and at night I dream about them.
The Browns famously lost that game — that was Red Right 88, the pass call at the end of the game when Sam Rutigliano told Brian Sipe that if no one was open, he should throw the ball into Lake Erie. It was a silly order. Brian Sipe ALWAYS thought someone was open. That was his genius. That was his curse. He didn’t have the arm strength to throw the ball against the wind, but he had the guts of a gladiator, and he threw passes into double and triple and quadruple coverage all the time because he had this outlandish belief that he could squeeze the ball through. And he did! All year! He was why the Browns were in the playoffs! He was the league MVP!
But not this time. No, this time the pass was intercepted by Mike Davis, and the Browns lost on that frigid day, and we moved to Charlotte not long after, where people did, in fact, wear shoes and bankers did banking things in gleaming skyscrapers.
I was better prepared for the next disappointment, 1985, when the Browns somehow made the playoffs at 8-8 and then, impossibly, took a 21-3 lead over Dan Marino’s Dolphins in the second half. They blew that lead, obviously, but, hey, those were Marino’s Dolphins.
The next year, John Elway drove the Broncos 98 yards.
The next year, Earnest Byner audaciously brought the Browns back from an 18-point deficit in the second half and then fumbled at the goal line.
Two years after that, the Browns wilted in the Denver altitude in the fourth quarter.
Five years after that, Art Modell’s Christmas gift to Cleveland was moving the team to Baltimore.
Why endure all of that? I never thought it was voluntary, if I’m being honest. I am a Clevelander. I grew up in the slush and mud, put plastic bags on my feet before putting my boots on, and walked with my back to the harsh wind. And I lived and died and died some more with my Cleveland Browns. All of us did. We were Browns fans together. When I sat in the Dawg Pound, people would offer me a shot of peach schnapps out of their flasks. When I rode to school, my bus driver complained about the nickel defense (“It ain’t worth a nickel!”). When I had free moments, I would write stories about the Browns, and in my stories, they always won.
It could happen!
I really believed it could happen!
This week, the fake team called the Cleveland Browns, who have milked Ohio for hundreds of millions of dollars to build them a Cybertruck Prison to play in, named He Who Shall Not Be Named as their starting quarterback.
HWSNBN was sued by two dozen women for sexual assault. HWSNBN has played a grand total of 19 games since signing the largest contract ever given an NFL player, which is admittedly more than the 11 games he was suspended for the sexual misconduct. HWSNBN has played like garbage in those 19 games, and he’s played like garbage in the two preseason games this year, and he’s shown no remorse whatsoever for his past deeds, and he blamed the Cleveland fans for booing him and called it “personal.”
For this, they gave him the starting job.
This, after trading away Myles Garrett, maybe the best defensive player in NFL history.
This, after compiling a 146-290 record since being founded in 1999.
“Absolutely not,” Browns coach Todd Monken said when asked if the fact that Browns fans absolutely despise HWSNBN played any role in his decision. “Zero. There was nothing to do with that.”
Right. Why would the people who have stuck with this vile and hideous franchise play any role in what the Browns do?
“Ultimately, the fans want us to win,” he added.
Think about the gall of that sentence. The shamelessness. The spite. Ultimately, the fans want us to win? The Browns are not going to win. They’re not even trying to win. They went 5-12 last year, traded away Garrett, and now they’re starting a quarterback who hasn’t thrown an NFL regular-season pass since 2024, and he stunk then, and also he stunk in the preseason. Are you just allowed to say anything these days?
I guess the question is: Does Todd Monken think we’re idiots?
No, I don’t suppose he does. I suppose he just doesn’t give a damn about us. None of them do.
The Cleveland Browns are in my blood. They have been there since long before HWSNBN was born. The love, though, has gone just one way for more than a quarter century now. You might know that I’ve tried (and failed) to walk away before. But something broke for me when Todd Monken made that announcement. For four years now, I held my nose and tried to get whatever joy I could get out of the Browns (watching Myles Garrett play, for one; listening to those boring Kevin Stefanski press conferences).
One of those joys was knowing that, as bad as the decision to trade for HWSNBN was, at least I would never have to watch him play quarterback for my childhood team again.
But no. They couldn’t even give us that. I don’t want the Browns to win. I want them to lose. I want them to lose and lose and lose, and I want it to lead to everybody getting fired, and I want the team sold. A decade ago, believe it or not, I got an unsolicited email from the Browns' owner, Jimmy Haslam. This was after I started the Browns’ diary and reestablished myself as a fan.
I’ve never published it before.
Joe – We can’t thank you enough for once again becoming a Browns fan! We certainly understand that following and supporting the Cleveland Browns over the years has not been easy, but I can promise you that everyone in our organization is putting everything we have into turning the Browns into a consistent long-term winner. We are glad to have you back in the fold. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me or anyone in our organization if there is anything we can do to help you. Thanks again and have a great week. –Jimmy
What is it that Michael says to Fredo in Cuba?
I know it was you, Jimmy. You broke my heart. You broke my 13-year-old heart.
The most generous interpretation is that the Browns are falling for the sunk cost fallacy: we're paying this guy all this money; he should play.
The less generous interpretation is that they are utterly clueless about both football and public relations and will continue to step on every rake in the yard like a billionaire Sideshow Bob.
This is why I'm a subscriber, Joe - you are a fantastic writer. One of your best.