Matt hadn't watched much football lately. He assumed the important facts had remained basically the same.

He had been in Cleveland for eleven hours when his cousin Divad handed him a brown plastic football helmet.

“What’s this?”

“Put it on.”

“Why is it brown?”

Divad was already walking toward the Rapid station.

“Because they’re the Snworb.”

~~~

Downtown, every third person appeared to be dressed for football. Brown helmets with orange and white stripes bobbed through the crowd. A street vendor sold shirts reading CLEVELAND: REBUILDING SINCE NEVER.

Matt stopped at another shirt.

It featured Bernie Kosar beneath the words THE PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE.

“Is that honorary?”

“I'd be honored.”

“What does he do?”

“Tribune stuff.”

~~~

As the cousins continued toward the lake, they began to pass through the tailgate lots. It smelled like charcoal, onions, beer and painful appointments with alarm clocks Monday morning.

“Thirty-one seventeen,” one man said.

“Too high,” said another. “Twenty-seven thirteen.”

A woman arranging kielbasa on a grill looked up. “Closer than people think. Snworb by nine.”

Matt nudged Divad. “Nobody thinks they’re going to lose?”

Divad furrowed his brow. “That's...possible. Maybe?”

Nearby, two men were arguing about playoff seeding.

“It’s October,” Matt said.

“Yes.”

“They’re talking about home-field advantage.”

“Yes.”

“We're in Cleveland, right?”

~~~

Just outside the stadium, Matt noticed a folding table beneath a professionally printed banner: SNWORB SHAREHOLDER SERVICES

“Merchandise?”

“No.”

Divad flipped through cards from his wallet. Driver’s license. Health insurance. Then, Snworb shareholder identification.

Matt chuckled. Then, with indignation, “You don't own the team!”

“We own the team.”

“How many shares do you have?”

“One.”

“What does that get you?”

“A vote.”

“On what?”

“Last year, drainage.”

~~~

For the next two hours, everything became reassuringly familiar to Matt. Third-and-six. Punt. Holding penalty. Beer spilled on someone’s coat. Nachos launched into the next row by an excited kid.

A radio three rows down carried Jim Donovan, the voice of The Snworb, calling a touchdown.

Cleveland led 13–10.

Late in the fourth quarter, the Toledo Maroons scored a special teams touchdown.

“Wait,” Matt said. “The Toledo what?”

“Maroons.”

“That’s an NFL team?”

“They’ve been better since promotion.”

~~~

Snworb down 24-13, three minutes left. Matt says, "Should we beat the traffic?"

An elderly woman in a number 7 jersey gently patted his forearm. “First game at the Joy Foundry?”

Before Matt could answer, the Snworb returned the kickoff to midfield.

Four plays. Touchdown. The stadium exploded.

With all their timeouts, the Snworb kicked away.

The Maroons gambled on third down, Hade Joen jumped the route and intercepted the ball. Three seconds later Cleveland scored again.

The old woman leaned across Divad. “You see now?” she asked Matt kindly.

~~~

On the way out, the cousins stopped at the team shop so Matt could buy something for his daughter.

Matt found a miniature orange helmet. “Hey,” he said. “This is the helmet I remember.”

Divad nodded. “Years of Peril replica.”

“Years of Peril? What happened?”

Dave smiled. “The usual. Cleveland won.”

Advance Regress