🚦Don't Go Breaking My Heart. I Couldn't If I Tried.🎈
Look, I watch sports. I yell at the TV. I know what a touchdown is (the good points). But nothing prepared me for the existential crisis that is the Cleveland Browns losing to the Baltimore Ravens.
Because here's the thing: the Ravens are the Browns. Or were. Or something. It's complicated, like explaining why I still watch even though I feel nothing inside.
The Great Cleveland Betrayal of 1995
Once upon a time, the Cleveland Browns existed. They had fans, a stadium, and presumably some players who knew how to throw the oblong ball. Then in 1995, their owner, Art Modell, decided Cleveland wasn't good enough for him and moved the entire franchise to Baltimore. Just packed up the team like someone fleeing their apartment at 3 AM to avoid the landlord.
But here's where it gets weird (weirder?): Cleveland got to keep the Browns name, colors, and history. Baltimore had to rebrand as the Ravens. So technically, the Browns didn't move to Baltimore—they just... took a three-year nap? The players moved, the coaches moved, the guy who sells overpriced hot dogs moved, but the concept of the Browns stayed in Cleveland.
The Ravens immediately became good, won two Super Bowls, and became respectable. The new Browns, who returned in 1999, have been an endless cavalcade of sadness and quarterback carousels ever since.
Wait, Did the Ravens Move to Oakland?
No. You're thinking of the Raiders, who moved from Oakland to Los Angeles, back to Oakland, then to Las Vegas. Different dysfunctional franchise, equally confusing geography. The Ravens have stayed in Baltimore, thriving like your ex who's doing suspiciously well on Instagram.
The Eternal Sadness
So when the Browns play the Ravens, Cleveland is essentially losing to their own ghost—the successful version of themselves that escaped and found happiness elsewhere. It's like if your personality left your body, moved to another city, got really into CrossFit, and now beats you up twice a year.
The Browns lose to themselves constantly. Sometimes they lose to the team that used to be them. Sometimes they lose to teams that definitely aren't them. Sometimes they find innovative new ways to lose that defy the laws of football physics.
And we watch. We always watch. Not because we understand the nuances of zone coverage or what holding actually means. We watch because sports fandom is less about joy and more about ritualistic suffering. We're emotionally numb, spiritually exhausted, and we'll be back next Sunday, screaming at our TVs about a thing we barely comprehend.
The Browns don't just lose games. They lose to the concept of themselves. They lose to history. They lose to reality itself.
And somehow, we're all losing with them.
