Written by Andrew Clayman

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On the morning of September 10, I woke up to a rather unique circumstance—a crossroads of sorts in the life of a Cleveland sports fan. First of all, I was in Edinburgh, Scotland. That’s different enough. But more importantly, the Browns had played their season opener the day before, and to my own astonishment, I had absolutely no idea what the outcome had been. …Well, I mean, I certainly had my presumptions (the Brownies are a reliable 1-13 in openers since their return, after all). But thanks to a 3,000 mile oceanic divide, shoddy hotel WIFI, and the notably enjoyable absence of ESPN, I found myself uninformed to a degree I hadn’t experienced since toddlerdom. “What had the Browns done?! What had I missed?!”

What happened next signified a mildly unnerving change of perspective that continues to resonate even as I settle back into my day-to-day, Midwestern American, sports watchin’ routine. Sometimes—it turns out—there really are better ways to spend a Sunday. Sometimes, it’s healthier to just read about what happened and be grateful you were off doing something else.

Now before this starts sounding like a cynic’s manifesto—or worse yet a white flag response to one of the worst Cleveland sports years ever (which is REALLY saying something!)—I should note that I have watched the past two Browns games in their entirety. And at times, I even found them pretty entertaining. That is what sports are supposed to be about, anyway, right? Entertainment; enjoying yourself. Sure, maniacal loyalty and alcoholism and gambling are right up there, too. But if the Family Feud host asked you to “name a reason why people watch professional sports,” odds are good you could hit that buzzer, shout “To Have Fun!”, and the survey would respond with a corresponding BAM for your #1 answer.

As any true Cleveland sports fan knows, however, the rules are slightly different for us. Over time, watching our teams has devolved into something far beyond an enjoyable distraction. As much as we still look forward to the game every Sunday, the actual process of watching it has become more akin to a task, a chore, a burden, an inescapable responsibility. Every Sunday we clock into the factory and do our time, pushing toward a day when we can finally get out of this racket and start living the dream.

Over in Scotland, they have a figure of speech for an unending, unrewarding task like this. They call it “painting the Forth Bridge,” because as the story goes, it took so long to put a coat of paint on east Scotland’s massive rail bridge, that by the time workers finished the job, it was time to start all over again.

Coincidentally, I was standing in front of the actual Forth Bridge on Sunday, September 9, as the Browns were getting ready to face the Philadelphia Eagles. Back in Cleveland, the media buzz was essentially the same as it's been every other year-- all about how this 2012 season is “the most important since the franchise’s return,” and “the beginning of a new era.” You know, cuz of how young and inspired the team is (which has always just been code for not having any actual proven talent).

What I saw when I finally read the recap of the Browns-Eagles game the next morning, however, was a very old, recycled script—one as predictable as Dr. House identifying the correct obscure disease at the end of every episode. First, we had the part where the young, upstart quarterback looks completely overwhelmed and out of his element (though I must admit I liked the whole "getting stuck under the flag" routine—brilliant stuff!). Then we had the part where the running game gets reduced to a cluttered stumble for stray inches. And the indelible image of a clueless coach furrowing his brow in confusion—the way a dog looks when you try to explain to him why eating his own poo is unbecoming. Last but not least, of course, there’s the scoreboard indicating that-- despite all these things-- Cleveland could still win this game. A bounce here, a bounce there, and here we are, hanging around until the very end—squeezing the last bits of hope from your heart and good sense from your brain.

So I’m reading the game recap, and I see how the fourth quarter played out, and an epiphany hits me. Not an epiphany that will echo through the ages, mind you. But sort of an interesting thought, anyway.

Originally, when I scheduled my first ever European vacation for September, I was a bit bummed that I would likely have to miss the Browns’ opener. I couldn’t recall ever missing a Browns opener. In fact, it’s been many years since I have missed a game at any point in the season. But in reading the story of the game, and seeing that familiar brand of heartache and agony reduced to a simple, concise, emotionless synopsis-- I could only feel relief that I had skipped the actual experience this time. Thank the effing lord I was walking around the Scottish Highlands looking at mountains and sheep and cows and stuff, instead of parked in front of my television, head in hands, watching the dog-murdering Michael Vick-- playing in front of a sea of sad men in dog masks-- overcome four interceptions to guide his heavily favored squad to a narrow, mostly gift-wrapped 17-16 win. Sometimes it just isn’t worth it, Man. It just isn’t.

Although… I had always wondered how the Eagles' noted canine assassin would be greeted by the Dawg Pound—them being anthropomorphized dogs and all. I kind of regret missing that. … Did we at least pelt him with Bil-Jac biscuits? I probably should have watched the game, shouldn’t I? I probably should always watch the game. Just in case.

Epilogue:

Shortly after reading about the Browns loss to Philly, I boarded a train to Glasgow, Scotland, where later that night, I sat in a crowded pub to cheer on the hard-luck Scottish tennis player Andy Murray. As the fates would have it, he was battling Novak Djokovic for the U.S. Open Championship. Murray had lost all four of his prior Grand Slam title matches. But with a transplanted Browns fan cheering him on in his homeland, his curse was lifted, as Murray became the first British man to win a Grand Slam title in 76 years. At one point midway through the match, a friendly, mildly inebriated Glaswegian turned to me at the bar and said, “You know, I think he might actually do it this time!” There was a brief pause as I considered a response. I didn’t want this lad to know I was American—a phony outlander trying to steal a bit of his culture’s finest moment of sports glory. I just shook my head a bit instead. “Yeah you're right,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t be saying that yet, should I?” The Scots spent a thousand years or so getting the shit kicked out of them by the English, so you can't help but feel like they're kindred spirits.