— Chris Mayor (@ChrisMayor) December 12, 2016
You know what this Tweet is to me? Archeology. You don’t write a book about the sad, downtrodden, pathetic, dysfunctional history of the Patriots without having a little bit of anthropologist in you. I’m fascinated by primitive cultures like the one I grew up being a part of.
The Cleveland Browns are the Pats of the 2oth century. Chris Mayor is me. Desperately searching for some shred of hope to cling to. And just like us back in the Dark Ages, hope often came in the form of a great team’s backup quarterback. Hugh Millen from the 49ers. Marc Wilson from the Raiders. For my boy Chris, it’s Jimmy Garoppolo. His six meaningful quarters of quality NFL football is enough to make him god-like to these simple, superstitious folk. Just as it was for us before Belichick brought us the Enlightenment. And going on NFL Shop to order a Jimmy G Browns jersey is their equivalent of throwing a virgin into a volcano so the harvest will be plentiful this year.
I’m not trying to be condescending. I actually admire the optimism. Mostly because we lived it. It’s hard to be hopeful when you’ve been down for so long. And I’d love to tell my man that the story of the Patriots proves any franchise can turn it around. But Cleveland had Belichick, the one true god. And they angered him by literally burning him in effigy when the (first) Browns were moving to Baltimore. So not even Garoppolo can fix them.
Still, there’s no reason for the Browns not to make a sacrifice of that No. 1 overall pick. For Chris Mayor and for us.