I don’t really remember being happier. Dad got me a hotdog and popcorn along with a jersey. He was getting me all this stuff, but didn’t want anything. “I’m just not hungry,” he said. Whatevs. I don’t get people who just aren’t hungry.

“Dad…” I said, “Look around,” and I grabbed his chin and started to turn his head. He wasn’t having it. “Everyone’s got beers dad. BEERS! Dawg Pound, WOOF WOOF!”

“Okay,” he said, swiveling back and keeping attention at the field. Whatevs dude. Sucks to suck.

We got out into the stadium and they were some pretty good seats. Seeing the players this close made it look more like Madden. We made it down the row before realizing that we were in the G row instead of the F row. Dad took craned his freakishly long legs over the chairs and easily stepped onto the ground. I didn’t even think before trying to hobble over the orange plastic seats, hotdog in one hand and popcorn in the other. I just wanted to follow dad. I didn’t make it long before the pants between my crotch got caught and I started to fall in the next seat. NO! My hotdog. As my ass his the seat rest, I felt a hand catch my hand. Dad saved the hotdog from smacking the concrete below. Hell yea dude! This game was gonna rock.

The game was already in swing. We definitely missed the kick off thanks to traffic. Goddamn I-480 construction. Cleveland traffic was always a shitshow, and you coupled that with it being gameday, AND mom and dad getting into one of their epic screaming matches like always… meant we missed the flag and all. Whatevs. I had my hotdog and my jersey and I was happy.

The new quarterback, Anderson, was taking a big old dump on the field. Of course we were already down 0-7. We were the Browns. We knew where we stood in the world. We were the guys that got creamed at every single turn. If it wasn’t the other team, it was the wind, and if the wind was good, it was the sun, and if it was cloudy, then the quarterback got injured.

“Of course they’re stinkin’ up the place,” Dad said, not looking at me. I didn’t know what to say so I bit into my Po’ Boy. Mustard squeezed off my lip, and I caught it right before it was going to splash onto my brand new jersey. Man, looks I got my “dad” reflexes kicking in.

“Play the FUCKING game Anderson!” we heard explode from some drunk guy behind us. I’d never seen a guy that angry. His skin looked almost grey. We both turned and looked, and when we swung our heads back, my Dad looked at me and said, “Holota,” which was Ukrainian for “scum.” I laughed. He was dead on.

The players got back in a huddle. They essentially had the entire field to go, and were already on 3rd down. I crumpled some popcorn into my mouth before hearing “ALLLLLLLLLLLright FANS! On your FEET! LET’S CHEER OUR BROWNIES!” boom out of the epic speakers. Dad lifted off his gigantic legs, and breathing popcorn through my nostrils, I followed.

HERE WE GO BROWNIES HERE WE GO

“Hoo Hoo” me and dad roared. The energy in the stadium started whipping and washing. It was getting powerful. It was like we were connecting a battery to our team. Come on Anderson, you got this!

They hiked the ball, and Cribbs was down field in three seconds. “Throw it.” I yelled. Anderson was about to get a face-full of 400-pound tackle into my hip.

“THROW IT!” Dad erupted. Anderson got a toss out, and time stopped. That ball just seemed to fly. It might as well have been American Airlines or something.

And then like dropping whipped cream onto your dessert, the ball landed in Cribbs’ hands and the dude pranced it in for a touchdown. Immaculate!

Dad and I exploded up! We were jumping all over. I’d literally never even seen him jump before, but we sure did have an amazing time. The grey-skin looking guy behind us started slapping us high-fives, and we were just… just right.

Then we started to hear it. From across the field, a wave of boos. Our fun times silenced, and we all started looking. Then we heard it a few rows down, “aw COME on!” and then a few rows closer. As people sat down, we could see it.

The yellow flag.

“Holding. Number 84. Repeat 3rd down.”

I sat down. I wanted to cry. Like really?! You’re really gonna take this away from the Browns. Every time! If it wasn’t the wind, or the injury, it was the frickin’ refs. I frickin’ hated this team. Nah. I loved em’. I had to. We were the Brownies. I thought this as I looked over at Dad. His mood was sour. His eyes were in his hands.

“Son,” Dad said, as I looked down to see that I had just gotten a huge mustard smear on my brand new jersey, right on the crystal clear white letter-8, “I’m getting a divorce.”