...Or, "Telling Lies, and Getting Paid."
On location, Little Rock, Arkansas, where's Gennifer Flowers? I think I have a thing for her...
The journey started earlier this perfectly autumn day at home, trying unsuccessfully to balance an egg upright on the kitchen counter because I've heard you can do that on the equinox. Equinox my ox!, either the hens that birthed these eggs have similar extracurricular substance habits as I do, or Ben Franklin or Newton or Churchill or whomever the hell came up with this balancing egg theory was just plain wrong. I couldn't do it.
With the science experiment portion of the morning concluded, it's time to get ready for a one day business travel extravaganza. Throw on some brown searsucker pants, a golf shirt, and flip flops, and I'm already feeling arrogant, which is the right frame of mind for business travel. Pack another golf shirt, real pants, real shoes, undies, socks, the laptop, and a couple bathroom necessities (Nair, eyeliner, and lipstick- just kidding- or am I?), and let's do this.
My new roommate Paul drops me off at the airport, and the fun begins. I'm two hours early, as always, even though I know it won't take that long to make sure I'm not a terrorist. I'm forced to go through the new-style imaging machine, as I was on my last flight to Vegas a few weeks ago, and my anger over reactionary federal government policy begins anew.
I guess my too-full beard and the fact that I have Lebanese cousins makes me an obvious terror threat, as I'm forced to submit to a digital scan of what lies beneath my asshole outfit, and what lies beneath my asshole. You know, just in case I have a pipe bomb in my scrotum and a machete in my butt. Tommy and Tina TSA eyeball me as I wait (with feet firmly planted on the carpet where the yellow feet outline tells me I had better plant my feet) not quite patiently. My civil disobedience to this stupid procedural ritual is limited to a death stare, and a good one at that.
OK, so this little diversion only took five minutes, and whatever, I was two hours early, but I'm still steaming. Without making light of the events of 9-11, they got us that day, and they got us hard. And they got us with planes because they rushed the cockpit with box cutters. Now the cockpits are locked. I realize that locking the cockpits doesn't the end to jihad make, but I think it means they aren't gonna get us the same way. But here we are, eight years later, and this entire invasive process, which allows us U.S. Americans (thanks Miss South Carolina) to travel on unprofitable bailed out airlines, is dictated by one tragic morning. Part of me thinks they've won, particularly if our airports are staffed with scores of power-tripping dropouts who relish the opportunity to unleash their federally granted authority arbitrarily. The entire operation screams inefficiency and obtuse government control, which is ironic considering the same people preaching the ethos of American capitalism are the same ones that ushered in this subsidized and totalitarian rite of aeronautical passage. Screw building new schools or keeping our libraries open, my America only invests in keeping us safe from outdated terror tactics. In related news, the terror level is still orange, which I think means people wearing Cleveland Browns jerseys or eating candy corn are much more likely to commit acts of sabotoge against symbols of American prosperity.
After waiting at the gate for a while and wolfing down a seven dollar bagel, I'm the second to last person to board the Southwest Airlines flight to Chicago. Practically no one is on this plane, so I get a row to myself. The ride is pleasant enough, as I review some bidding documents and devour an issue of Sports Illustrated.
At Midway in the Windy City, I re-up on reading materials, grabbing Harper's, the New Yorker, and New York. Harper's and the New Yorker are staple purchases at airports, because I'm a condescending liberal and I like to read clever shit by people sharing my point of view. New York was an impulse purchase, because Neil Patrick Harris was on the cover and Doogie is a pretty intriguing dude.
Before I could board the flight, I learned that the TSA had randomly subjected this flight to additional searches for carry-on bags. I know, dude, I'm on your list, don't judge me too harshly by my deodorant and hastily folded clothes. This perfunctory search yields nothing, as they didn't find my anthrax stash.
As it were, the flight from Chicago to Little Rock was not nearly as empty as my first flight. Actually, it was 100 percent full. Being the last one on the plane meant squeezing my 200 pound ass (with the machete still inside me) between two much larger gentlemen with wider asses (though presumably not burdened by weapons of ass destruction, thanks to our friends at the TSA).
Armrests were not able to be accessed, and I quickly ruled out a nap. If I'm sitting next to a relative or friend on a plane, they can count on me drooling on them and trying to spoon them at awkward angles. This rapport never developed with the two dudes I was sitting between, so I remained awake for the duration.
The guy to my left was conversant at the end of the flight, and while he talked about the stock market, I threw him glances and thought to myself, "I'm sitting next to Colonel Freaking Sanders, I better tell him how much I like his mashed potato bowls!"
After an enlightening sermon on the virtues of buying low and selling high by a guy I'm convinced has singlehandedly captivated my tastebuds and raised my blood pressure, we're blowing into the land of Bill Clinton, the Razorbacks, and the first Wal-Mart store. Whether getting a blowie, blowing opponents out (Nolan Richardson's 40 minutes of hell hoops squads of the previous decade), or blowing up local economies, Arkansas blows. And I mean that kindly and apologetically, as I am in no position to judge the people of this state, and that was a strech of an analogy.
The hotel in downtown Little Rock offers a wondeful view of surface parking lots. I wish Monet was around today to paint some of these wonderful landscapes (note: my lack of art knowledge may have been exposed here, I don't know who was really good at painting landscapes. But I'm pretty sure Monet is dead, and I think you don't pronounce the "t" in his name).
Settled, I'm ready to get some work done, work I should have done last Friday, but instead went golfing with my friends Zak and Ryan, justified in my own head because Ryan would be getting married the next day and I would never get another chance to golf with him the day before his wedding. His wedding ended up being a blast, even though I don't remember most of it due to my binge alcoholism (I want to do a Kettle One commercial that mirrors the pompous EAS spots starring the Browns' high school quarterback Brady Quinn, but instead of showing me lifting weights or running through cones, I'm falling on the dance floor or staring into the camera with glazed donut eyes... "thirty drinks or none, now I'm done").
Anyway, my plan to do work is rendered moot by the fact my laptop took a dump, and I'm wondering if it decided to put a machete up its ass before the flight too. The hard drive is toast. Work must wait again, and now I'm nervous about that.
Darkness falls on Little Rock, and I end up going to dinner with a guy from my company (who mysteriously had a boarding pass allowing him to get on both flights 100 people before me) and a competitor in the niche market I work in. This guy is about 115 years old, but he is as sharp as the machete in my ass- I should have taken that out at the hotel- and his war stories about moving libraries from the 1950's through the present day make the dinner enlightening and kinda fun. I soak in a lot of it, and even though I'm an overly outspoken boar, I recognize this as an opportunity to sit back and listen.
After returning to the hotel, I jot down a couple of industry secrets that were probably only unleashed because of that third vodka and tonic (my two Sam Adams do nothing to dull my lucidity). The day offers frustration, hopelessness (the down laptop), but finally a bit of an education. I'm saying it was all worth it.
Tomorrow I'll be sizing up the State Library of Arkansas, and reversing course back to the Land of Cleve.
Tonight I'm dispatching war stories from the blackberry (English teachers better give me a pass on the grammar and stuff), and now I'm gonna go to bed. I think I'll leave that machete right where it is, I'm kind of getting used to it.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ch-ch-ch-changes...
...And I'm not afraid to dress like Ziggy Stardust to make it happen.
Big changes are in store for the Haganational, and they are designed to give you, my six loyal readers, a better reading experience. Several things are being discussed, but you can count on a better platform for reading and writing blogs, so this will mean goodbye to google’s blogspot, and a new domain name. You can also expect more content, some graphical interplay, and contributions from readers as well as new and exciting writers. It’s too presumptive to say the Haganational is going big time, but we are being called up from rookie ball.
Did I, Matt Hagan, the sultan of surliness, have the vision to make these changes? Of course not, I am an idiot. That’s why I’m pleased to announce Jason Tabeling as the first president and publisher of the Haganational. I’m sticking around as the senior writer and editor-and-chief. You can still expect my almost unique brand of muddied metaphors, slimy similes, gross grammar, sad spelling, and abhorrent alliteration…. Wait a minute, wait a minute- Mr. Tabeling is telling me that our new platform will have something resembling a word processor- Tabes, we’ll have to consult on this, I think the people regarded at my butchering of the language as quaint… Whatever Mr. IT, I pity the fool who think some fancy new processor is gonna challenge my propensity to reach for the most improbable of analogies…
OK, it’s clear we have a few things to work out, but if all goes according to plan, this could be one of the last Haganational’s on google’s blogspot. I’ll post one more, at least, with directions about how to follow us to our new home (pleaaassssseeee).
The impetus behind these changes is Mr. Tabeling, a Lakewood High School and Ohio University graduate. In his spare time he enjoys golf, softball, and drinking draft beers. No, this isn’t my bipolar alter-ego or an imaginary friend. He is also a devoted family man, tech-savvy, and generally more conservative than me (not hard to do, rest assured he is certainly not Joe Wilson). But most importantly, his area of professional expertise is under the hood of the internet machine, and from what I hear (from him), he's a pretty good mechanic.
Also, Mr. Tabeling did not know how to spell the word “surprise” until he was 21. He is the starting shortstop on our five-time Lakewood Softball Championship squad (I am his understudy- and since shortstop is my favorite position- I love when he misses games) but has never backhanded a ground ball. When I play second base, our double play combination has a name in the vain of Tinkers to Evers to Chance, and that name is “oops-pow-suprise” (see first sentence of this paragraph). He is bald (he may own the new domain, but let’s test his editorial prowess).
His wife, Sarah Ellis Tabeling, has been a friend and classmate of mine since elementary school. While we were in fifth grade, our teacher, Mrs. Vahue, called us to the front of the room to tell us we were “enriched” or “really smart” or something like that. Anyway, we weren’t put into the gifted class, that’s all I know, we were simply placed into the kinda smart group of two. I didn’t understand why I was in this pedagogy purgatory, until we were given a quick oral test designed to elicit rapid responses. Sarah and I were on fire in this back and forth, as we took turns nailing the questions, “photosynthesis,” “Thomas Jefferson,” “e-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a,” and then Mrs. Vahue threw me a softball, asking what 400 divided by 200 equaled. “Two-hundred!” I proclaimed exuberantly. OK, I now understand why I didn’t get the call up to the gifted class. Still not sure why Sarah didn’t though, she was always pretty smart.
The Tabelings have a one-year old daughter, Allison Rose, and she is very cute and makes expressive faces. If all goes according to the plans of the Haganational’s oops-pow-suprise managerial team, she’ll be contributing articles to the only URL U’ll Really Love, the new Haganational, in about fifteen years.
Big changes are in store for the Haganational, and they are designed to give you, my six loyal readers, a better reading experience. Several things are being discussed, but you can count on a better platform for reading and writing blogs, so this will mean goodbye to google’s blogspot, and a new domain name. You can also expect more content, some graphical interplay, and contributions from readers as well as new and exciting writers. It’s too presumptive to say the Haganational is going big time, but we are being called up from rookie ball.
Did I, Matt Hagan, the sultan of surliness, have the vision to make these changes? Of course not, I am an idiot. That’s why I’m pleased to announce Jason Tabeling as the first president and publisher of the Haganational. I’m sticking around as the senior writer and editor-and-chief. You can still expect my almost unique brand of muddied metaphors, slimy similes, gross grammar, sad spelling, and abhorrent alliteration…. Wait a minute, wait a minute- Mr. Tabeling is telling me that our new platform will have something resembling a word processor- Tabes, we’ll have to consult on this, I think the people regarded at my butchering of the language as quaint… Whatever Mr. IT, I pity the fool who think some fancy new processor is gonna challenge my propensity to reach for the most improbable of analogies…
OK, it’s clear we have a few things to work out, but if all goes according to plan, this could be one of the last Haganational’s on google’s blogspot. I’ll post one more, at least, with directions about how to follow us to our new home (pleaaassssseeee).
The impetus behind these changes is Mr. Tabeling, a Lakewood High School and Ohio University graduate. In his spare time he enjoys golf, softball, and drinking draft beers. No, this isn’t my bipolar alter-ego or an imaginary friend. He is also a devoted family man, tech-savvy, and generally more conservative than me (not hard to do, rest assured he is certainly not Joe Wilson). But most importantly, his area of professional expertise is under the hood of the internet machine, and from what I hear (from him), he's a pretty good mechanic.
Also, Mr. Tabeling did not know how to spell the word “surprise” until he was 21. He is the starting shortstop on our five-time Lakewood Softball Championship squad (I am his understudy- and since shortstop is my favorite position- I love when he misses games) but has never backhanded a ground ball. When I play second base, our double play combination has a name in the vain of Tinkers to Evers to Chance, and that name is “oops-pow-suprise” (see first sentence of this paragraph). He is bald (he may own the new domain, but let’s test his editorial prowess).
His wife, Sarah Ellis Tabeling, has been a friend and classmate of mine since elementary school. While we were in fifth grade, our teacher, Mrs. Vahue, called us to the front of the room to tell us we were “enriched” or “really smart” or something like that. Anyway, we weren’t put into the gifted class, that’s all I know, we were simply placed into the kinda smart group of two. I didn’t understand why I was in this pedagogy purgatory, until we were given a quick oral test designed to elicit rapid responses. Sarah and I were on fire in this back and forth, as we took turns nailing the questions, “photosynthesis,” “Thomas Jefferson,” “e-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a,” and then Mrs. Vahue threw me a softball, asking what 400 divided by 200 equaled. “Two-hundred!” I proclaimed exuberantly. OK, I now understand why I didn’t get the call up to the gifted class. Still not sure why Sarah didn’t though, she was always pretty smart.
The Tabelings have a one-year old daughter, Allison Rose, and she is very cute and makes expressive faces. If all goes according to the plans of the Haganational’s oops-pow-suprise managerial team, she’ll be contributing articles to the only URL U’ll Really Love, the new Haganational, in about fifteen years.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Backing Up on Browns Backing
As another Cleveland Browns season draws near, I can hardly contain my excitement. No, not really. For the entirety of the last decade, save two outliers of seasons, the Browns have sucked. The three years before that, they did not exist. This does not mean I do not love the Browns; rather, it underscores the dismay I have when one considers that a once proud franchise has rightfully become a league laughingstock.
This perpetual putridity is even more disturbing set against the backdrop of the Pittsburgh Steelers ongoing stability and success. Since the Browns began being terrible, right before they left town, the Steelers have appeared in three and won two Super Bowls. They have an identity borne of toughness and consistency. They are to be, as a child of Northeast Ohio, the hated rivals.
The only problem is I can’t hate them anymore. They also can’t be considered rivals, unless you’re in the camp that considers the Washington Generals a rival to the Harlem Globetrotters because they play each other a lot. At some point, one has to throw their partisan die-hard feelings aside, and respect the superiority of the opposition. Once you acknowledge this unchallenged superiority, the rivalry is over, until it is once again challenged.
This moment, the death of the rivalry, with the benefit of hindsight’s razor sharp vision, occurred on January 5, 2003. I was a 23 year old punk (much different than now, as I am a 30 year old punk), visiting Heinz Field to watch my beloved Brownies take on the Steelers in the wild card round of the playoffs. This was the Browns first (and as we know now, only) dalliance with postseason play since they were resurrected in 1999.
A little background for this seminal moment may be in order; the 2002 season was my NFL season of dreams. I was making roughly eleven dollars a week, but managed to attend eleven NFL games that season. I made a trip to Cincinnati to watch the Browns, a memorable journey with two friends who shall remain nameless that included induced hallucinations, a freestyle rap session on interstate 71 at eight o’clock in the morning, scalping 40-yard line tickets ten rows up for twenty bucks a pop, a Browns victory, at least fifteen draft beers, a midnight footrace on the campus of UC, and vomiting. Yet I remember that day very clearly.
In November, a group of Lakewood guys made a trip to New Orleans, the Browns won again, and I reached into a reservoir of rhythm to that point undiscovered and to this point absent and unreachable (my only regret is that my interpretive dance session was not recorded). The boys and I happy-footed around the crescent city, turning the French Quarter and Superdome into a playground of Lakewood debauchery. I will never forget proclaiming, shirtless, to a section of Saints’ fanatics, that “N’awlins… is a Browns Town!”
The last home game of the Browns season was a culmination of unlikely events, as the Browns scooted by the Falcons and their electrifying young quarterback, Mike Vick. The Falcons, driving the field on the last possession, received news via the PA system that another NFC game had ended, a game that solidified Atlanta’s position in the playoffs. With nothing on the line, the Falcons did not unleash nor expose their wunderkind, and were content to run the ball into the Browns’ defense, ensuring the Cleveland victory. The Browns that day needed three other games to go their way in order to secure the tiebreakers that would enable a playoff berth, and wouldn’t you know it, everything fell in order.
Earlier that year I attended two non-Browns games in Pittsburgh, an exciting Monday night tilt against the Colts, and an epic tie against Vick’s Falcons, in which Vick led his team to 17 points in the final quarter. That game was the first tie in years, and the last until a season or two ago, a game in which Donovan McNabb notoriously admitted to not knowing the NFL’s tie rule.
Back to January 5, 2003; the Browns were piloted by Kelly Holcomb, the journeyman backup with a propensity for putting up big numbers in limited opportunities. He threw for a ridiculous 400 plus yards that day, and the Browns led the Steelers 24-7 with about four minutes left in the third quarter. I sat in the upper deck that day, flanked by three similarly clad Browns’ backers, orange and brown drunken needles in a black and gold haystack. We taunted the home crowd as we built our lead, absorbed the thrown peanuts and beers, and homo-erotically celebrated most innocuous of moments, like a first down on second and one or a holding penalty on the home team.
And then the karmic tides changed. In a little more than a quarter, our egos were deflated and the rivalry was over. The Steelers won. The Browns have not won squat since. They’ve tried everything in the interim, but with less than a modicum of success. One aberration of a winning season in 2007 (although they lost to Pittsburgh twice), and a bunch of unwatchable football.
This bothers me immensely. The Browns are, and will always be, the most popular team in town. Unfortunately, we are entering a huge demographic shift, as the median Browns fan no longer loves the team because of its tradition and identity (the tradition has become losing, the identity is a lack of one), and is merely there because it is the thing to do, to tailgate and drink and put on a jersey and be seen. The beer swilling Dawg Pounder of the 1980’s is fifty-something, the orange pants Kardiac Kid is sixty-something, the Otto Graham fan is probably dead. The kids that are left, the present and future of the fan base, has no recollection of Cleveland success.
I’m on the edge. I lived and died with Bernie and the mid to late eighties Browns, read up on the juggernaut of the fifties and sixties, and studied the lean but generally competitive teams of the Ryan’s, Alzado’s, and Sipe’s. Between their founding in the All American Football conference until Modell picked up and left in 1995, they were at minimum, relevant. Let’s tell the truth; since the loss to Pittsburgh in that fateful playoff game, they have become irrelevant.
We’re losing the connection to success, and the tradition is slowly following. Let’s contrast this to our former rivals, the Steelers, a team that has had three head coaches since 1969, and Mike Tomlin ain’t going anywhere for another decade or two. The Browns have had five coaches since 1999. There is no comparing these two teams any longer.
And so the season begins anew this Sunday, and I’ll definitely be watching. I’ll give their latest supposed savior, Eric the Mangenius, a chance. But my expectations are not that high, and at the end of the season I’ll be begrudgingly rooting for a blue-collar, Midwest team that always finds a way to win. It will hurt, and it will feel like adultery, but I can’t help but respect that team. Yeah, I said it; I like the Steelers. I will always love the Browns, but my masochism has its bounds. Until proven otherwise, these teams play in the same division but operate in separate universes.
This perpetual putridity is even more disturbing set against the backdrop of the Pittsburgh Steelers ongoing stability and success. Since the Browns began being terrible, right before they left town, the Steelers have appeared in three and won two Super Bowls. They have an identity borne of toughness and consistency. They are to be, as a child of Northeast Ohio, the hated rivals.
The only problem is I can’t hate them anymore. They also can’t be considered rivals, unless you’re in the camp that considers the Washington Generals a rival to the Harlem Globetrotters because they play each other a lot. At some point, one has to throw their partisan die-hard feelings aside, and respect the superiority of the opposition. Once you acknowledge this unchallenged superiority, the rivalry is over, until it is once again challenged.
This moment, the death of the rivalry, with the benefit of hindsight’s razor sharp vision, occurred on January 5, 2003. I was a 23 year old punk (much different than now, as I am a 30 year old punk), visiting Heinz Field to watch my beloved Brownies take on the Steelers in the wild card round of the playoffs. This was the Browns first (and as we know now, only) dalliance with postseason play since they were resurrected in 1999.
A little background for this seminal moment may be in order; the 2002 season was my NFL season of dreams. I was making roughly eleven dollars a week, but managed to attend eleven NFL games that season. I made a trip to Cincinnati to watch the Browns, a memorable journey with two friends who shall remain nameless that included induced hallucinations, a freestyle rap session on interstate 71 at eight o’clock in the morning, scalping 40-yard line tickets ten rows up for twenty bucks a pop, a Browns victory, at least fifteen draft beers, a midnight footrace on the campus of UC, and vomiting. Yet I remember that day very clearly.
In November, a group of Lakewood guys made a trip to New Orleans, the Browns won again, and I reached into a reservoir of rhythm to that point undiscovered and to this point absent and unreachable (my only regret is that my interpretive dance session was not recorded). The boys and I happy-footed around the crescent city, turning the French Quarter and Superdome into a playground of Lakewood debauchery. I will never forget proclaiming, shirtless, to a section of Saints’ fanatics, that “N’awlins… is a Browns Town!”
The last home game of the Browns season was a culmination of unlikely events, as the Browns scooted by the Falcons and their electrifying young quarterback, Mike Vick. The Falcons, driving the field on the last possession, received news via the PA system that another NFC game had ended, a game that solidified Atlanta’s position in the playoffs. With nothing on the line, the Falcons did not unleash nor expose their wunderkind, and were content to run the ball into the Browns’ defense, ensuring the Cleveland victory. The Browns that day needed three other games to go their way in order to secure the tiebreakers that would enable a playoff berth, and wouldn’t you know it, everything fell in order.
Earlier that year I attended two non-Browns games in Pittsburgh, an exciting Monday night tilt against the Colts, and an epic tie against Vick’s Falcons, in which Vick led his team to 17 points in the final quarter. That game was the first tie in years, and the last until a season or two ago, a game in which Donovan McNabb notoriously admitted to not knowing the NFL’s tie rule.
Back to January 5, 2003; the Browns were piloted by Kelly Holcomb, the journeyman backup with a propensity for putting up big numbers in limited opportunities. He threw for a ridiculous 400 plus yards that day, and the Browns led the Steelers 24-7 with about four minutes left in the third quarter. I sat in the upper deck that day, flanked by three similarly clad Browns’ backers, orange and brown drunken needles in a black and gold haystack. We taunted the home crowd as we built our lead, absorbed the thrown peanuts and beers, and homo-erotically celebrated most innocuous of moments, like a first down on second and one or a holding penalty on the home team.
And then the karmic tides changed. In a little more than a quarter, our egos were deflated and the rivalry was over. The Steelers won. The Browns have not won squat since. They’ve tried everything in the interim, but with less than a modicum of success. One aberration of a winning season in 2007 (although they lost to Pittsburgh twice), and a bunch of unwatchable football.
This bothers me immensely. The Browns are, and will always be, the most popular team in town. Unfortunately, we are entering a huge demographic shift, as the median Browns fan no longer loves the team because of its tradition and identity (the tradition has become losing, the identity is a lack of one), and is merely there because it is the thing to do, to tailgate and drink and put on a jersey and be seen. The beer swilling Dawg Pounder of the 1980’s is fifty-something, the orange pants Kardiac Kid is sixty-something, the Otto Graham fan is probably dead. The kids that are left, the present and future of the fan base, has no recollection of Cleveland success.
I’m on the edge. I lived and died with Bernie and the mid to late eighties Browns, read up on the juggernaut of the fifties and sixties, and studied the lean but generally competitive teams of the Ryan’s, Alzado’s, and Sipe’s. Between their founding in the All American Football conference until Modell picked up and left in 1995, they were at minimum, relevant. Let’s tell the truth; since the loss to Pittsburgh in that fateful playoff game, they have become irrelevant.
We’re losing the connection to success, and the tradition is slowly following. Let’s contrast this to our former rivals, the Steelers, a team that has had three head coaches since 1969, and Mike Tomlin ain’t going anywhere for another decade or two. The Browns have had five coaches since 1999. There is no comparing these two teams any longer.
And so the season begins anew this Sunday, and I’ll definitely be watching. I’ll give their latest supposed savior, Eric the Mangenius, a chance. But my expectations are not that high, and at the end of the season I’ll be begrudgingly rooting for a blue-collar, Midwest team that always finds a way to win. It will hurt, and it will feel like adultery, but I can’t help but respect that team. Yeah, I said it; I like the Steelers. I will always love the Browns, but my masochism has its bounds. Until proven otherwise, these teams play in the same division but operate in separate universes.
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