Here’s the kind of sophisticated Browns fan that I am. Just before the long-awaited opening kickoff, the waitress had set before me a tall glass of amber ale. Inexplicably, during Josh Cribbs’ return, a party of four deserted a large round table with the best angle to the biggest TV airing the Browns game. A few other fans and I seized the opening. During the transfer across the room, I was able to remain fixed on the long Frye-to-Edwards touchdown, remark upon it to my fellow fans, realize it would be nullified by a penalty, and casually settle in to my new seat. All without spilling a single drop of beer.
Yes, I am a veteran Browns watcher.
I know better than to cheer madly before the next play (or two) has been run. I also know better than to remove my eyes from the game, because a scarce highlight will surely occur at that moment. So I looked, and whetted my whistle between plays, and looked some more.
A hour later, around the time the Browns offense finally moved the chains, the manager brought me my forgotten jacket.
I took it as a help, not a hint, so — devoted dawg that I am — I stayed until the bitter end. The familiar cold comfort of another football season had embraced me. I zipped up the windbreaker and tugged the bill of my Browns hat to better secure it to my head, lest it tumble across the parking lot.
These things happen.
