After last week’s sorry and embarrassing pigskin display I vowed not to watch another Cleveland Browns game, and instead to spend my remaining fall Sundays in some kind of productive, less angst-inducing pursuit.
However, my lovely and wise wife has encouraged me that I should take another course. Simple avoidance, she counsels, is not a viable long-term strategy. The better course, she advises, is acceptance. In short, she submits, I need to embrace the Browns’ intrinsic suckiness and strive to achieve a state of Frank Costanza-like serenity about the team’s sorry state. Only then can I hope to be freed from the devilish demons of Cleveland sports fandom and be able to go forward with a cheerful and positive attitude about the franchise and its beleaguered supporters.
I’m not sure this is possible, frankly. In fact, I think even the most enlightened Buddhist zen-master would struggle to watch a Cleveland Browns game with a calm sense of mental tranquility. But Kish has convinced me — I’m going to try.
Yeah . . . good luck with that!
