January 23, 1987.

That is the very day I became a real Cleveland Browns fan on my own.

Don’t get me wrong—I rooted for the Browns before that date. But until that day, I really didn’t know what it meant to be a Cleveland Browns fanatic.

Cheering for the Browns was ingrained in me from birth. My father was a product of the heyday of the Cleveland sports scene.

He was an usher at old Cleveland Municipal Stadium during part of the great Cleveland Indian World Series teams from 1948 to 1954.

He waxed poetic about Jim Brown, Otto Graham, Gene Hickerson and Marion Motley, to name just a few Browns’ heroes.

My experience following Cleveland professional sports was quite a bit different.

The Cavaliers and Indians were pathetic during my early years.

And although my father may have witnessed the “rich tradition of Cleveland Browns football,” in my lifetime, they managed only two playoff wins—the last being 1969, when I was just two years old.

The franchise had been in three measly playoff games from 1972 to 1987. All three were first-round losses (1981 to the Raiders, 1983 to the Raiders again, and 1986 to the Miami Dolphins).

Despite years of watching less-than-spectacular football, the extended family gathered every Sunday at grandma’s house for dinner and the game.

I lived in a completely sports-oriented family, so following the Browns just came naturally.

In my house you rooted for the Buckeyes, Cavs, Indians, and Browns.

No front-running, either!

My father feverishly pounded into my head that I was duty-bound to hate the Wolverines, Celtics, Yankees, and Steelers, even if they were getting the better of the home-town team.

But from elementary school to high school, I had my own game to worry about.

Every change of season, my father shuttled me to practices and games. It was baseball from spring to summer, football from fall to winter, and basketball from winter to spring.

Even when I was not playing an organized sport, I would play in the local school yard five houses away with my friends and older cousin.

School, practice, games, working out, running, watching or reading about sports—that was my life from eight years old until I graduated from high school.

I had dreams of my own until I realized that there was not much interest in a 5'8", 140-pound wannabe athlete.

So after not being able to get on the diamond at nearby Kent State University, I decided to hang up my cleats and concentrate on my studies.

It was the winter of my freshman year when the Browns made the playoffs, and were to play the New York Jets.

I had already purchased nosebleed seats for the game with my college buddies. But my friend Mickey called to tell me that he had an extra seat in the lower boxes on the 50-yard line.

I gave my extra ticket to my brother and five of us crammed into my rusty but incredibly reliable 1979 Buick Skylark.

We almost didn’t make it to the game.

My friend knew a back way to avoid the stadium traffic and I had to slam on the breaks on the freeway to get to the off-ramp. Three separate cars had to swerve to avoid us.

But we finally made it to the stadium and settled into our seats, which undoubtedly were the best seats I have ever had at any sporting event.

We didn’t know it at the time, but we were in for the ride of our lives.

The Jets struck first on a 42-yard touchdown pass from Kenny O’Brien to Wesley Walker in the first quarter.

The Browns marched right back to tie the score at seven after a 98 -ard drive, capped by a Bernie Kosar-to-Herman Fontenot touchdown pass.

The teams traded field goals and ended the half tied, 10-10.

In the second half, the Browns offense turned cold. Kosar and company just could not get on the scoreboard.

The Jets kicked a field goal in the third quarter to take a 13-10 lead.

Later, Jets running back Freeman McNeil scampered in from the 25-yard line for what looked like the finishing touches on a Jets victory with only 4:14 left in the game.

It was third down and 24 from the Browns’ own 18 when the large stadium crowd started shuffling out the door.

Just one more season of “wait until next year,” we all thought.

My friend stood up and I shook him off, “One more drive.”

I would like to say that I had some epiphany or moment of clairvoyance in predicting a Browns victory. But the truth is that I was waiting for the crowd to thin out before I made my way out of the stadium.

It was seconds later when miraculously (or “moronically” if you were a Jets’ fan), Jets defensive end Mark Gastineau got called for a roughing the passer penalty to keep the drive alive.

The Browns scored on a Kevin Mack one yard plunge to finish off a heart-pounding 68-yard drive.

But time was not on the Browns’ side.

The Jets were forced to punt with less than one minute on the clock.

Kosar hit wide receiver Webster Slaughter to set up a game-tying field goal by Mark Moseley with just seven seconds left in regulation. What a tremendous comeback!

My guess is that only about 30,000 of the 79,000 people in attendance to start the game saw that kick (although the local papers say more).

As an aside, Moseley was signed out of retirement just a few weeks earlier when regular kicker Matt Bahr was injured.

In the first overtime, the Browns drove the ball all the way to the Jets five yard line. Moseley, with a chance to be the hero once again, instead missed a chip-shot field goal.

It seemed like something out of a Stephen King horror film: Gutty comeback thwarted by an easy field goal miss.

But in the second overtime period, Moseley got a chance to go from hero, to goat, to hero again after the Browns marched all the way back to the Jets nine-yard line.

This time Moseley redeemed himself for a spectacular 23-20 Browns’ victory.

What transpired after that kick is a feeling that I had never felt before, and I have never felt since.

A huge, burly “biker” looking man turned to look for the closest person next to him. He had to step over four rows of seats to get to me.

He grabbed me and bear-hugged me like I was his long-lost son.

I turned and saw two men jumping up and down in what was somewhat of an embarrassing, crying embrace. One was a well-dressed “yuppie” in khaki pants, and the other was dressed in his factory work clothes.

Men, woman and children of all ages, races, and social classes treated complete strangers as if they were best friends.

No written words could possibly describe how that team lifted the spirits of an entire town.

Many northeast Ohioans will bemoan the fact that the Browns lost the following game in gut-wrenching fashion. John Elway’s “The Drive” is what sticks in most people’s memories.

The following season, Browns' fans once again had the chair pulled right out from under them in “The Fumble” game against those same dreaded Broncos.

But I prefer to remember the feeling that I had when that Mark Moseley field goal split the uprights.

I would rather think back to the up-lifting scene I witnessed from my seats to the parking lot.

Super Bowl or no Super Bowl, I learned what it was like to be a true Browns’ fan that day.

By the way, when I reached my car, I saw my brother and two friends glumly sitting on the trunk.

They missed it all!

“I can’t believe you gave up on them,” I lectured, still pretending that I knew it all along.