In a few short hours, the Browns kick off a new season. Everything is possible. Anything can happen. This might be the year of Kelly Holcomb’s honeymoon, as he wins the league’s MVP, torching defenses worse than Sipe or Kosar ever did. “Run, William, Run!” could be emblazoned on sweatshirts throughout the land, becoming a catch phrase Madison Avenue would envy. The front four could spearhead an intimidating, ball-hawking defense, both earning the cover of Sports Illustrated and then breaking that jinx. Some wag would think of a nickname better than Purple People Eaters or Fearsome Foursome.

The adrenaline starts to flow. Today is one of just 16 Game Days this year, not counting last January 5, an epochal contest befitting a memorable moniker like so many of the Browns’ famous losses — Red Right 88, The Drive, The Fumble, Bottlegate, Helmetgate. Whether it’s called the Heinz Catch-up or Holcomb’s Heartbreak or just The Collapse, that 36-33 Steeler win set the stage for an understudy QB’s ascendancy and the purging of the defense.

Most pundits prognosticate a middling record for this year’s Dawgs. Precious few predict a return to the playoffs. But they have to make their living by spouting some such speculation. They’re on the record, so 8-8 is an easy out. Truth is, everything is possible. Anything can happen. Butch could get fired following a sorry 5-11 showing. Or — dare to dream — big men in orange and brown hoist the Lombardi Trophy in January.

But surely, some freaky, bizarre, unpredictable circumstance will enter the annals of Browns lore. That’s as much part of the Browns tradition as the logo-less helmet. Last year brought us even more than our usual allotment of oddities, both for good (Couch’s blind, falling 2-point toss to Northcutt against the Jets; the last-gasp grab by Quincy against the Jags) and ill (Rudd’s classic bonehead celebration in the opener setting the standard). We had a rookie runner sputter out of the gates, not finding his way until he emptied his stomach on the field. We had a pencil-thin wideout — who many predicted would be cut — come of age with an elusiveness evocative of the best days of Eric Metcalf and Greg Pruitt. Two quarterbacks suffered broken legs.

Everyone is healed now, psychically at least, we hope. The new season is upon us. With any luck, the butterflies flutter fast in William Green’s gut. With any luck, Tim Couch has secretly detailed with guided mental imagery an amazing riches-to-rags-to-riches script. With any luck, Anthony Henry snares ten more interceptions, Big Money finally earns it, the Quiet Storm wreaks havoc. With any luck, today Kelly Holcomb avenges his former team and the coach who once cut him. With any luck, Peyton’s post-game comments profer props to those speedy new linebackers. The helmets stay on, the prevent defense is shelved, and in the end, our quarterback, whoever it is, takes a knee both to salt away the victory and offer a pious prayer that at long, long last, this might be, this improbably team might finally be, yes indeed, beginning its rambling run toward the elusive destiny of its fans’ dreams.

Run, William, Run!