I was a reader and writer in high school and college, not a jock – more likely to read The Catcher in the Rye than study football plays. Yet football games were cathartic rituals for me and my dad, and if they didn’t inspire conversation, at least they relieved the pressure to talk. While sitting in the stands with 80,000 other fans, we didn’t have to say anything. Silence was golden – and in this case, also sanctioned. [above: photo by Tony Tomsic/Cleveland State University Library]
Cutting north on Sixth, a hulking arena of brown concrete loomed before us – Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Its iron beams were the same rust-red as the Hulett ore unloaders floating off the East Ninth Street pier. The stadium boasted the largest seating capacity of any outdoor arena in the 20’s, my dad told me once. Cleveland was a big, brash city then, striving to be on par with New York or Chicago. Beyond the Huletts, Lake Erie was full of choppy, gray waves.
As we approached the stadium, my dad began rattling off statistics about the Browns’ record, which was pretty good except for one little thing – we hadn’t won a championship since ‘64. In recent years, we’d come close to reaching the Super Bowl only to have our hopes dashed.
The Drive and the Fumble are pillars in the Cleveland sports hall of shame. In ‘86, Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway got the ball on the two-yard-line after seventeen minutes of overtime, and he threw it to a running back that drove for a touchdown. The Broncos did it again in ’87 after the Browns fumbled with mere seconds left. In ‘89, Denver knocked Cleveland out of the playoffs for a third and final time. These near-misses convinced us of our tried-and-true philosophy – we were doomed and miserable, but we had football and beer.
As we reached Gate D, we passed a group of bundled-up Browns fans carrying signs that read “The Art of Betrayal,” “Benedict Art” and other slogans that would never make the 11 o’clock news. We found our seats at the 45th yard line. As the first quarter started and the Bengals neared the end zone, the fans booed thunderously. It wasn’t uncommon for Dawg Pound fans to throw dog biscuits (and whatever else they could get away with). Occasionally, the ref would penalize us for bad behavior, and the fans would quiet down – for a few minutes.
My dad and I ordered a couple of hotdogs and a pretzel that we split between us. The Browns took an early lead, and he tried to educate me about the game for the umpteenth time. (“What happened there?” “They called a penalty because of illegal blocking, he was hit from behind.”) The beer guy jogged up and down the aisle non-stop yelling “Beer Here!” – at least he was warm, I thought. Despite my aversion to over-the-top Browns fans, I got swept up in the excitement.
In the second quarter, the momentum of the game shifted towards the Browns and stayed there. LeRoy Hoard caught a 30-yard pass and the Browns drove towards the end zone and scored their second touchdown. As the crowd leapt to their feet, their screams hit me like a wave. The Dawg Pound was in rare form – at one point, to shield the Bengals from objects thrown by Cleveland’s fans, officials stopped play and moved both teams to the other end of the field.
When the game ended (the Browns won 26-10) my dad and I stayed in our seats. Usually we left the game as soon as it ended, pouring down the ramps with cans crunching under our boots, going to our cars to get warm as downtown emptied out. Today was different. We stayed in our seats and talked to our seatmates, tipped our favorite vendor, or asked a complete stranger to take our photo. We weren’t in any hurry – next season, they’d be someone else’s team.
I don’t know how it started, but sometime in the fourth quarter, a Dawg Pound fan pried up a row of seats with a crowbar. Then he heaved the bench onto his shoulders and walked out as if he’d just scored a winning touchdown. Soon other fans started dismantling the stadium, deciding if they couldn’t go to any games, they’d take a piece home instead. The guards smiled and didn’t say a word.
As we walked to the car, my dad and I were quiet. I wanted to say something to him about the game or what I’d done that week, but the words weren’t there. As we drove home, we listened to the post-game show on WAME. Can you believe it – an end to an era, the jockey was saying. Great final performance, folks. Tonight we want to hear your favorite moments. Call us and let us know – what will you tell your kids about this era in Cleveland football history?
My dad and I shared our favorite moments then. His memory stretched back to Paul Brown and the championship victory of 1948 – the team of his youth. I talked about the near misses of my childhood – the Drive, the Fumble and now the Move. We slipped into our private thoughts as the lights on Chester Avenue turned green, and the dark, empty streets urged us towards home.
