Unexpected fans at the gas pump

Gassing up near Walsenburg in southern Colorado, the wind whipped me as I got out of the car. The station swarmed with cars on Saturday morning. Walsenburg was one of the few places to gas up for many miles. 

To the west, the Sangre de Cristo mountains soared. Unexpectedly green plains and mesas rolled off to the east (more on that in a future post). 

I noticed the pickup at the gas pump in front of my car. It wasn't decked out in presidential flags, a refreshing change. 

But what I rally noticed was the man’s Cleveland Browns T-shirt. In Colorado, that’s a rare sight outside of the insular Browns watch clubs in the state’s big cities. 

With Broncos Country spanning not just Colorado but most of the Mountain West, that shirt was downright anomalous. 

Should I say anything? I had to ask him. 

I shouldn’t have even been there. I tried to gas up two exits earlier and the credit card read would not let me insert my card. So I drove on, and fared better at this truck stop. So many little moments had to line up for me to run into a fellow Cleveland sports fan in southern Colorado. 

I gently asked about the Browns shirt and mentioned where I came from. He was a native who ended up out in Colorado. Familiar story.

We had a back and forth about locations. I had lived in Mentor and Lake County- he mercifully did not drop “That’s not Cleveland,” as people who live closer to downtown Cleveland often do. His mom and family still lived there, and eventually Euclid became the common ground in our conversation. Both our pumps clicked off at a full tank. 

Sadly I had to say one more thing. 

“Well, go Browns, and let’s hope for a good”- 

He cut me off, with good reason. 

“Wait, don’t jinx us.” 

I realized my foul. Browns fans never talk of success, especially not future success, lest we add to the misery  produced by Red Right 99, the Drive, the Fumble, the Move, the Helmet Toss, the Winless Season and others I just wanted to forget. We don't call Browns Stadium the Factory of Sadness for nothing. 

“Ah, damn, is it too late?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. He smiled and shrugged as he got into the truck again. 

Less than in a minute he headed into Walsenburg, while I turned toward New Mexico, chuckling about hard-luck Browns fandon. Any wrong word or premature celebration will flip into an excruciating loss Some superstitions never go away. 

But the stranger was correct to admonish me. Browns fans cannot grow comfortable with winning.