Everything was pitched as the most important thing that had ever happened. And how do I get through on a landline without her mom or dad answering first? To my utter, teenage surprise, he wrote back -- more than once -- although I harbored suspicions those responses were typed out by his secretary. Seconds before, I was convinced this was Cleveland's night. I knew I'd have the last laugh. Justin kept razzing me about the Browns and tempering my concerns, saying:
My flowery boasts swiftly became a fool's wind, as the new Browns were scattered into a thousand pieces in a dangerously embarrassing crushing by Kordell Stewart's Steelers. While I spent hours obsessing over pro football, I could barely comprehend film sessions with our own coaching staff. Telling me about this quarterback named Bernie Kosar. Ninety-eight yards to tie the game and send the AFC Championship into overtime. By September, I was working at a flashlight factory within biking distance of the farmhouse. A voice in my head would ask that night: His Browns team opened before turning into a ground-and-pound, esque outfit in a season-ending, four-game win streak. Forget Parcells and his smothering, shot-from operation. I promised Sprague I'd watch. The editor, Justin Hathaway, is a good guy. Out of moves, I rented the cheapest apartment I could find along bleak I and found a job bathed in corporate horror working as a "human resources coordinator" at a Wells Fargo call center within yards of the apartment. I still spent Sundays at the Browns Backers bar, sipping beer at kickoff and watching Cleveland tumble into a hole while wondering how to correct the floating second act of my crime-stopping-gal story. The job was mental horror: The club drifted into deep mediocrity in the early s, but I could count on the players to suit up on Sundays and divert my attention for three hours. I was a year-old innocent living in a Connecticut bedroom town outside New York City. Mentally unstimulating work was preferred. Threatening to end the year with 10 straight defeats, the Browns squeaked out a win against the Texans on January 2. I would become a perfect fan. In my mind, we were an item, and this letter -- in which Brynn carefully described the Californian landscape and a Mexican dinner with her parents, while revealing zero devotion to Marc -- had me convinced. Eric Mangini landed in -- with a thud. I knew I wouldn't, with a paper-thin resume that screamed town-to-town job jumper lacking purpose. Then tuck it away for weeks, tumbling into dorm drinking, doomed flirtations and a lingering promise to the people around me to rush a fraternity. This was our limelight. That's when I saw him. The Giants bandwagon was overbooked, but I could sneak aboard and never look back. NBC's minute ticker was my deepest ally, suddenly glistening on screen with life-or-death updates from afar. Three autumns later, in , I was a two-time transfer student standing alone in a bland, dormitory common room at American University in Washington, D.
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