I’ve lived in Cleveland my whole life, which means I root for the Cleveland Browns. This is unfortunate, because the last time the Browns did anything good, I was three years old and really into Winnie the Pooh.

So why root for the Browns? Nobody comes to the door on Sundays to check if you’re cheering. This is America, and you’re allowed to turn the TV off or even root for a team that occasionally wins. After watching another horrific Browns loss on Sunday, I started thinking about why I even care about this team. And then I thought about my own football career.

My football career was both long and illustrious. (Illustrious means “tried hard,” right?) Every week during junior high and high school, sometimes two or three times a week, my brother Jesse and I would take on my neighbors Eric and Ryan in a game of two-on-two street football.

I now know that if I lived on a street where kids played this version of football, I would shoot them. That’s because, despite our street being 7 yards wide and filled with parked cars, we insisted on punting the ball every kickoff. And when an unathletic adolescent tries to punt a football down the street, there is a .1% chance of the ball landing in the arms of the returner and a 200% chance of it falling straight onto the hood of a car, pointy side down.

In between checking our neighbors’ cars for dents, we would play football for hours. We didn’t keep good stats during those years, but I would estimate mine and Jesse’s record over that time to be 0-126.

There were a few reasons we never won a game:

1. I was our team’s QB. I am not an athletic person.
2. Jesse was our team’s wide receiver. Jesse is not an athletic person.
3. Eric was our opponent. Eric is not a person who lets things slide. Most coaches get two challenge flags a game. Eric had infinity. He would throw his imaginary challenge flag for stepping out of bounds or counting “one-onethousand, two-onethousand” too fast or not being ready or literally anything.

Jesse and I tried to overcome these obstacles by expanding our playbook. While Eric and Ryan could get by with, “Run around and I’ll throw it to you,” Jesse and I diagrammed elaborate plays on our bellies. Our favorites included:

Sneak em in the Pants: I’d toss the ball back to Jesse and run long for a pass.
Result: 100% chance of Jesse throwing it to the other team.

N: Jesse runs 10 yards out, then 10 yards diagonally back to the line of scrimmage, then 10 yards out, tracing a big “N” on the field.
Result: There’s a reason you’ve never seen this play in the NFL. It takes literally 20 seconds to develop. By the time it was over, Jesse was gasping for air, and I had been sacked.

Fakeout: We were allowed one QB sneak per set of downs. I would fake a long throw, wait for my defender to jump, then take off down the sideline.
Result: This worked literally once.

SOP! (Same Old Play): Sprint to the line of scrimmage and run the same play again.
Result: SOR! (Same Old Result)

The Car: Jesse would run behind a car, using it as a pick, and I’d throw a fade to him.
Result: *CRUNCH* “It’s not dented. I said it’s not dented! Stop looking at it!”

None of these plays worked even a little bit. Still, we maintained dignity and hope as we slogged through loss after loss. “Do you guys want to switch up teams?” Eric would suggest. “NEVER!!!”

As college came closer closer, it looked like I would end my career without a single win. Then one day right before I was supposed to leave, magic happened.

After the opening kickoff landed directly on my dad’s car, Eric and Ryan started driving the ball. They got it to the 50-yard line, and Eric threw a perfect pass to Ryan in the endzone. Ryan and Jesse both jumped, but Jesse looked almost like he was being lifted by one of the angels in Angels in the Outfield.

Interception.

That would have been miraculous enough, but the next play, we ran Sneak em in the Pants, and it was the first time I could remember the play actually working. Jesse threw a perfect pass to me, and I ran the length of the field for a touchdown.

After that it was on. We traded touchdowns for an hour, until it was time for dinner and the game was tied. Next score wins. Jesse and I stopped Eric and Ryan short of a touchdown, then started driving down the field.

Now would be a good time to start playing the Remember the Titans music below.

Down 1: Long completion down the sideline.

Down 2: Incompletion that nearly got picked off.

Down 3: Short pass that almost made it into the endzone.

Down 4: One last chance to punch it in. I looked up and noticed a car parked just inside the endzone. “We’re running The Car.”

Jesse nodded, giddy with excitement. He lined up to my left. “Hike!” Oneonethousand. Jesse stumbled off the line. Twoonethousand. Ryan was all over him. Threeonethousand. I started backpedalling. Fouronethousand. Jesse got a little bit of separation. Fiveonethousand. Eric blitzed. Just as he was closing in on me, I launched the ball, placing it perfectly behind the car. Jesse reached out and…

TOUCHDOWN!!!

The next minute happened in slow motion. Eric began yelling that you can’t use the car like that. I chest bumped Jesse and fell to the ground. We performed an elaborate high five. Jesse presented me with the game ball (It was my ball anyways). We celebrated for the rest of the night.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that it was the single greatest athletic achievement of my life.

Did that one win make up for five years of losing? Mmmmmm, probably not. But I do know one thing that I sometimes think about when I get discouraged about the Browns: without all the losing, I’d never remember the win.

LIFE LESSON #45

Don’t give up on a loser. Because a loser that finally wins knows how to celebrate.