“Cleveland Conundrum”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

Sports in Cleveland.

For those not familiar with life on the shore of Lake Erie, thinking about fandom for professional sports might not arouse any particular sort of emotion. The habit of modern Americans to place loyalty with athletic teams is well-known. Thanks to the advent of social media, these individual preferences may now be broadcast in a fashion far superior to the ‘bumper sticker’ of yonder days. But the love for sports is not unusual, or really compelling to those who are not fond of such competition. It is, simply, a fact of life.

In Cleveland however, the seasonal ritual of following pro sports has taken on a kind of tribal identity that defines the city and its region. Because of the long drought we have experienced in winning – one championship in over 50 years – the agony of engaging in any kind of fandom can literally be overwhelming. Our people have faithfully watched epic failures occur, over and over again.

Familiar disappointment has sometimes touched supporters of the Indians and Cavaliers. But the post-move Cleveland Browns, here again since 1999, have literally rewritten the parameters of sports woe, itself. Network pundits have sometimes observed: “It is statistically impossible to be so bad as the Browns, year after year.” In truth, the statement is wholly accurate. Yet this conundrum by the Cuyahoga River has continued. The franchise has been perpetually awful. So much that many fans simply migrated to Pittsburgh with their affection. A hateful act of self-loathing that is disgusting and treasonous. One can only imagine the spirit of Paul Brown witnessing black-and-yellow being worn here in Cleveland. Such cruel behavior boggles the mind and tests the spirit.

Judas Iscariot might be proud of this trend. But he never had to watch a generation of bad football.

As George S. Patton famously observed: “Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot and hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost nor ever lose a war.” While some might dispute the factual content of this statement, it is an admonition true in spirit. No one in our nation worships defeat. We celebrate championship rings, not embarrassment on the field of play. Thus, the temptation to flail our bodies by donning the colors of an enemy tribe has proved to be overwhelming, for some.

In Yankees hats and Steelers jerseys, such sad fools immerse themselves in a baptism of shame. For Americans, losing is a sin. There is no greater stain on the soul than that of being a traitor. Yet, still, it feels good to be a winner.

In Cleveland, it is popular to discuss ‘Red Right 88’ and ‘The Drive’ or even ‘The Fumble.’ Like some religious monks wear their suffering as a badge of honor. A sign of sacrifice given to prove our fealty to the Northcoast. Dependably, ticket-holders flock to the ‘Factory of Sadness’ (a.k.a. First Energy Stadium) for Sunday services. Hope is doled out like communion at mass. The faithful are sure in their belief that one day, another championship will appear. It is right and proper. Also logical when viewed upon a foundation of statistics.

Yet somehow, the misery has continued.

In antiquity, our home was termed “The best location in the nation.” But now, we are more likely to be thought of as “The mistake on the lake.” This is why LeBron James will forever be heroic to sports fans of the region. Despite his past sins, or abandonment that may come again, he brought the experience of winning back to Cleveland. It was a meal for a starving skeleton of a fan base. One denied sustenance for decades. Our thankful prayer over that feast will never cease to reverberate on the water of Lake Erie.

Some ruefully observe that this is ‘Browns Town.’ A city defined, for good or bad, by its NFL Franchise. For a place twice shunned by the league, in 1946 and 1995, this literally seems amazing. But our love of the game has been unflagging. Despite betrayal by Art Modell and bandwagon stooges of rival teams, despite a horrific reanimation in 1999, despite futility, chaos, quarterback changes and front-office terminations, despite fired coaches and ownership transitions, Clevelanders still live and die with their football.

We have scars. We are proud of them, like medals pinned to a uniform.

Following sports in Cleveland, of any kind, is a challenging activity. We know too well the sting of defeat. We have become too familiar with the pain of rebuilding and rebuilding and rebuilding once more, only to find ourselves at the same crossroads. Yet the priceless essence that keeps us alive is like breath in our lungs, sunlight in our skies, or food in our bellies. It takes grit to love athletic competition in Cleveland. And one thing more.

Faith. In at last being a winner.

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Published weekly in the Geauga Independent