Hmmmmm. What should I write about with the Browns this week???
I could analyze the train wreck that Cleveland appears to be after only one game this year.
Naaaaa. I’m guessing I’ll have plenty more opportunities for that topic over the next few months.
The Browns’ home opener is this weekend, though. And the start of another season along the shores of Lake Erie brings back waves of memories of my trips to watch my beloved Brownies.
My father, Andy, was 3rd generation Slovenian-American who grew up in Euclid, about 10 miles east of old Municipal Stadium. He and his dad, also Andy, caught just about every game through heyday of the Browns in the 50s and 60s. They even saw the 27-0 upset of the Colts in the 1964 NFL championship game.
Work, family, and a move to Stark County eventually limited the ‘Andy Duo’ to a few games a year. But in fall of 1978, Dad made a monumental decision that would change the course of world history. More specifically, the world of 7-year old Andy #3, nicknamed ‘Mac’.
Earlier that summer, when dad took me to a Tribe game, he told me that the Browns played in that exact same stadium. WHAT????????????? That completely blew my soon-to-be 2nd grade mind! How could this beautiful green baseball diamond also be a football field???
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On a beautiful September sunny Sunday afternoon, Dad and I drove up I-77 to join Grandpa to see the Browns take on the Bengals. The first thing that I learned is that parking is both an art and an adventure. One of dad’s key commandments of life, one that I use to this day, is…
GO WHERE TRAFFIC ISN’T!
I must note that this commandment that I have passed on to my family often saves me a lot of time. And periodically gets me in some very hairy situations.
Back to 1978. Instead of following the thousands of ‘sheep’ down the clogged artery that is East 9th Street on game day, Dad deftly took us on a detour to our eventual Lakeside Avenue destination. That is where I learned Andy’s 2nd commandment:
DON’T EVER PAY FOR PARKING!
I am not married to this one, but I do try to find some deals. More on that later.
After finding a free spot, we started our long, adventurous journey to the stadium. I say ‘adventurous’ because my dad was big on short-cuts. And our short cut for Browns’ games was to go ‘on’ the beaten path–literally. Instead of walking down to the East 9th Street Bridge, Dad, grandpa, and I slowly traversed a steep, worn dirt path that wound down what is pretty much about a 100-foot cliff. I vividly remember that the last 10 feet was pretty much a vertical drop. And on that day, at that moment, my 60ish-year-old grandpa crashed and burned. Fortunately, he survived with only his pride broken. We crossed some railroad tracks and returned to civilization.
That adventure might have saved us 3 minutes, but it became a rite of passage for our family. My two younger brothers, as well as the various friends we would periodically bring along, would all scaledown that cliff. In fact, when I moved down south to Muskingum College, a girl I knew was heading up to an OSU game at Cleveland Stadium, and asked for some pointers. My buddy Steve and I not only gave her our secret parking location, but we DEMANDED that she take the short-cut. Tracy later reported to us, with a huge smile, that she conquered the cliff!
I am sad to say that I have not passed this tradition on to my sons (which includes Andrew #4). Cleveland Police closed our ‘trail of tears’ in the early 90s after someone died at the bottom. D-I-E-D. But I have taken the boys to the edge to take a peek down to where they almost lost their great-grandfather.
Each time we reached the bottom the cliff, I would be rewarded with my first glimpse of this grand old dame…
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In the distance, the thousands of stadium lights were usually on as the yellow upper deck seats slowly began accepting their guests. Cleveland Municipal Stadium had plenty of critics, but I loved the place.
The Browns rolled the O.J Simpson-led 49ers in their opener the week before (remember when O.J. was THE rock star of the sports world!), so the Stadium was surrounded by an electric ocean of orange and brown. Plenty of SIPE and PRUITT jerseys dotted the massive herd of fans heading for the gates. As we approached the entrance, Dad scooped me up and told me to act like a little kid. I think he even told me to say ‘goo-goo ga-ga’. Huh?
I guess $6 was a steep ticket price for my dad, so he was hoping I would get a toddler freebie. As we got to the turnstile, the ticket taker first looked at my innocent mug, then gave Dad the stink-eye and told him that NEXT time, I would need a ticket. We made it! ALJANCICS 1, ART MODELL 0!
As I walked through the tunnel to the field, the sights, sounds, and smells were overwhelming…
The green field. The smell of hot dogs. The buzz of 80,000 fans. Real football players in those iconic NFL helmets. Guys smoking small brown cigarettes that smelled kinda funny. All of this –not including those brown cigarettes– was magic to my 7-year old senses!
The game started, and soon after, Dad signaled a vendor for a foot-long and mentioned something about ‘mustard’. About 10 guys in our row passed down our dog (all surely with clean hands), and then passed our money back to the vendor. Dad split it in half, and I got my first taste of the wonder that it is Stadium Mustard.
Nowadays, my boys and I alter this tradition a little. We get our dogs before the game from our favorite street vendor, Phil. I can’t get them to do the mustard, but they do channel their inner-Cleveland for some cooked onions.
1978 was the start of the Coach Rutigliano era, and my Stadium debut coincided with what was the first of many “Kardiac Kids” thrillers that would become a staple of Sam’s teams. The Browns won 13-10 in overtime over Cincinnati. In fact, the Bengals even missed a 37-yarder to win it. I quickly concluded that the Browns are not only exciting, but they are also on the right side of the luck coin! Little did I know.
I rode on Dad’s shoulders as we took our long trek up the East Ninth Street Bridge (we only went DOWN the cliff). Too often, I have had to join the somber funeral procession of Cleveland fans after a loss. But on this day, it was a massive wave of joyous Browns’ faithful heading to their cars.
SUPER BOWL!
SIPER BOWL!
HERE WE GO BROWNIES…… HERE WE GO! WOOF, WOOF!
It took just a few hours, but I was hooked. I became a full-blown Cleveland Browns’ addict.
That addiction that many of us have inherited from our fathers has been a rollercoaster ride over the decades. Unfortunately, the lows of the post-expansion Browns make many of use question our hearts. I sometimes wonder why I keep watching and rooting. And why have I put my sons on this tortuous path? They have never even seen a winner!
Dad passed away a decade ago, a few years after Grandpa. Thinking back to those special days as the Andy Trio, as well as the magical moments of the Kardiac Kids and Bernie-led Browns, reminds me of how exhilarating it can be to be a Browns’ lover.
I guess I agree with that familiar old Alfred Lord Tennyson phrase…
“Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”
Alfred L.T. obviously was not a Browns’ fan.
A few years ago, as I was taking my boys and some friends to our typical Lakeside parking lot, I missed the entrance and had to circle around the block. Then, I saw on the street, just behind a sweet Porsche and a tricked-out truck, an empty parking space. FREE PARKING!!!!!
I jumped all over that space. As we took our long walk to the game, I texted my brothers and buddies to let them know I got Dad’s free parking. We were all pumped.
The stadium was buzzing. Eric Mangini’s team had just beaten the powerful Patriots, as well as the defending Super Bowl champion Saints. Colt McCoy led a last-minute comeback to force the Jets to overtime. But the Jets stole the game in the final moments (don’t fumble, Chauncey Stuckey!), and we began our sad, familiar trudge back to the car.
As we neared the end of our walk, I noticed from a distance that the Porsche and truck had their windows smashed in. Poor guys.
Then I saw the side window of my mini-van…
Thanks, dad!
Only in Cleveland.