Editor’s Note: This tale does not take place on Thanksgiving, but it is about the orgy of violence called football, which, along with gluttony, dinner with unpleasant relatives, and celebrating our victory over the native peoples of this once verdant continent, is what Thanksgiving is really all about.
I am a native of Cleveland, Ohio, the half empty city on Lake Erie whose river, the Cuyahoga, was once so polluted it caught fire. I grew up a fan of the Cleveland Browns (the actual Browns founded by Paul Brown, not the Fake Browns that took their place) thanks to my idiot father, who, if he is still alive, is most likely standing in his front yard next to a Donald Trump sign wearing an American flag t-shirt that says on the back, “Burn This One, Hippie!” Honk if you love America!
Growing up a Cleveland sports fan means being perpetually enraged, mostly at the Browns and Indians for dashing your hopes on an annual basis.
This story does not take place in Cleveland. It takes place near Washington, D.C., in a hotel in Crystal City, Virginia. It is late summer 1991, and the Browns are in town to play the Washington Redskins (another Thanksgiving reference, of sorts) in a preseason game. Bill Belichick had just taken over as head coach, and Bernie Kosar was the quarterback, and had been for quite some time.
The Browns had had a couple of promising seasons in the 1980’s, winning just enough to tantalize (and thus enrage) me. Ask me about John Elway and the Denver Broncos, why don’t you? Watch me froth at the mouth.
As for me, I’d been in the Army for several years at that point. We’d moved to Florida when I was seven, and I had done my bachelor’s degree years in the mid-1980’s at the University of Florida, and had continued my football fandom there. I went insane and joined the Army in 1987. Ask me about Charley Pell and Galen Hall, why don’t you? Watch me froth at the mouth.
I was taking graduate courses in communication at a Crystal City hotel through the Army College Office’s arrangement with Oklahoma University. The university would fly the professors in for a week. I would read the course work over three weeks, take the course for four hours at night for a week in a hotel conference room, and then on Saturday and Sunday would spend the entire day at the hotel, with Sunday being the blue book exam. That counted for two semester hours. You got another semester hour from turning in a paper afterward.
Oh, and in case you’d forgotten, we’d just won a war with Iraq at that time. How do I know we’d won? We’d had a National Victory Parade–with tanks and planes and everything–earlier that summer. Civilians treated those of us in uniform differently after that. That’s when civilians started saying, “Thank you for your service.”
The first time someone said that to me while I was in uniform, I was waiting for a public conveyance outside of Fort McNair after a public affairs conference, sucking on a cigarette. I looked around, confused, wondering who she was talking to, realized it was me, and then blurted out defensively, “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” The civilian looked angry that I didn’t appreciate her gratitude. But I hadn’t done anything. I’d spent the entire war in northern Virginia. I probably did less during the war than before or after it. I’d watched it on TV like everyone else.
So in that context, let’s watch the soldier in his Class B’s (green shirt, dark green pants, shiny black plastic shoes, etc.) get on the elevator and realize that he’s standing next to Bernie Kosar, the longtime quarterback of the Cleveland Browns. Kosar was very tall, and the soldier is not. They nod at each other. And then:
Me (angrily): Why can’t you guys win? Just once?
Me: I mean, you won at Miami! Under Schnellenberger! I even saw you play! Wait… you sucked that night.
Me: I went to the University of Florida.
The Hurricanes under Kosar won the National Championship that year even though they got trounced in their first game of the season by the Florida Gators at Florida Field. I was there that night. It was my first Gators game in person. It was a pretty good year for Florida football. Lost to Georgia though. And then Charley Pell won the SEC for us the following year, which was vacated because… let’s not go into that.
The elevator dinged, and Kosar practically leapt out of it to get away from me. His restraint, in retrospect, was remarkable. Then again, the public relations part of his brain probably told him, “DON’T PUNCH THE SOLDIER IN HIS SWEATY, APOPLECTIC FACE.”
How did the Browns eventually do that season? They sucked. Suckity-sucked. So, lesson learned: Yelling at the quarterback in an elevator does not work.
That’s it. That’s the whole story. Enjoy your Thanksgiving everyone. God damn it.