Twenty-five years and 24 days ago, I stood on the sideline at Municipal Stadium thinking the Browns were taking me to the Super Bowl.
Nose tackle Dave Puzzuoli’s sack of Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway set up third-and-18 from the Cleveland 48 with 1:47 to go in the AFC Championship Game. The Broncos needed a touchdown to tie, and 79,915 delirious attendees dreamed of Pasadena, Calif. In fact, make that 79,916.
Then Elway finished off the shot to the heart known as “The Drive.”
I had covered the Super Bowl in 1981, when the Dayton Daily News sent me to Detroit with the Cincinnati Bengals. But I was not the Bengals’ beat writer, merely one of a contingent of at least five reporters.
Because the Bengals didn’t allow women in the locker room, I had followed their opponents in the playoffs. I received a menacing stare from San Diego Chargers running back Chuck Muncie after the “Freezer Bowl.” Because I worked for an afternoon newspaper and could stay until the last player departed, I found myself at the feet of San Francisco 49ers quarterback Joe Montana after he was named MVP of Super Bowl XVI. I was close enough to touch Montana.
But it wasn’t the same as covering a team whose players and coaches know your name.
At least I guess it wasn’t. In my 36 years in journalism, the only real champions I’ve gotten to know came from Ohio State’s 2002 national title team.
Since I began covering the Browns in 1981, my winning percentage as an NFL beat writer/columnist has slipped to .391. That includes three seasons with the Bengals after Art Modell moved the Browns to Baltimore. It does not include the final seven games and one playoff contest in the Browns’ 1985 season or any of the 12-4 glory of 1986, save for the championship game, because the Dayton Daily News assigned me to an office position.
The breakdown of the road to .391 is dismal. It includes 95-113-1 with the Browns in 1981-95, 18-30 with the Bengals and 68-140 with the expansion Browns. I also added a 3-5 record with the Browns in playoff games and 2-1 with the Bengals. I missed the Browns’ only playoff appearance since 1999 because I was with the Buckeyes in Arizona. (Ironically, former OSU coach Jim Tressel once considered me a good luck charm.)
That’s a grand total of 186-289-1. I guess that makes me the Mistress of Mediocrity.
It also forces me to savor the memories of Super Bowls I attended but didn’t cover.
First on the list was Super Bowl XX in New Orleans with the Super Bowl Shuffle Bears. Julie, a friend from the Dayton Daily News, grew up in a Chicago suburb, and her uncle had a connection with NFL Properties. I can still hear my late mother asking why I would spend $75 on the ticket. (I still have it, tucked inside the game program.)
One night leading up to the game, I cornered Bob Costas in the Old Absinthe House on Bourbon Street and tried to persuade him to get me a job at NBC. To his credit, he tolerated me for a while.
We made a sign reading “Payton’s Place,” which was confiscated when we crossed the bridge from the Hyatt to the Superdome. After kickoff, Julie didn’t drink a beer, worried she might miss something important while in the restroom. When the New England Patriots took a 3-0 lead, it only heightened her resolve. She was right. As the Bears pulled away to a 46-10 victory, I probably did see more tile than turf.
The lowlight of the revelry came later, when we followed Jim Plunkett out of the Hyatt lobby hoping to get his autograph. When we reached the street, we realized that our rental car, which we hadn’t seen for days, had been towed that morning. The trip to the impound lot was a buzz kill, at least temporarily. After all, this was New Orleans.
I covered several Super Bowls for the Columbus Dispatch and attended a few more with friends in the business. The only other one when I sat in the stands — I think it was San Francisco’s 55-10 XXIV rout of Denver in New Orleans — was so boring, I became fascinated with a woman knitting nearby.
At XXXVI in New Orleans (any question why I have a Mardi Gras tree in my living room?), where New England defeated St. Louis 20-17 to start the Patriots’ run of three titles in four years, I waited after the game at the Sazerac Bar at the then-Fairmont hotel (now the Roosevelt). The Patriots were throwing a lavish party upstairs. Not long after my friend from the Rocky Mountain News arrived came Patriots coach Bill Belichick, who was meeting his old neighbors from Brecksville. I agonized for more than an hour over whether I should congratulate the former Browns coach, knowing the mere sight of me would draw a scowl. (During the “Bill Must Go” 1995 season, he spent an eternity ripping me over the phone for writing in the Dispatch that he lived in Brecksville.) A couple of Sazeracs later, I got up my nerve and approached him.
This time I was right, I did not draw a warm welcome. But after I congratulated Belichick for his masterful coaching job during the season and for winning one of the most exciting Super Bowls, he seemed to appreciate my gesture.
Perhaps those few minutes offered a window into what I really seek.
I’ve endured the 12-hour days of 29 NFL seasons (and half of a 30th) and the boring drives on Interstate 71 from Dayton and Columbus. I want the chance to share in the ultimate success with the players, coaches and comrades who have been part of the journey.
Since the Browns are one of four teams that haven’t reached the Super Bowl, the chances seem slim at the moment. I might be the Mistress of Mediocrity, but I’m still holding out hope. Even if it’s the men in the orange helmets facing third-and-18.
Marla Ridenour can be reached at mridenour@thebeaconjournal.com. Read her blog at http://marla.ohio.com/. Follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/MarlaRidenour.
