The House Divided

It drives us apart and brings us together, a love story

Photo by Library of Congress on Unsplash

When my husband Matt and I first started dating, he told me I wasn’t welcome at his friends’ Steelers game parties because I am from northern Ohio and, both by declaration and default, a Browns fan. At first, I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. He and his group of friends, most of whom he’d known his whole life growing up south of Pittsburgh and behind the steel curtain, were dedicated and superstitious fans. And they’d agreed that my presence—regardless of the week’s matchups—could somehow ruin the experience or even put the team in jeopardy. Although I never witnessed them firsthand, these parties involved dress codes (often repeat wears of certain garments when the team was on a winning streak), “lucky” dishes served without fail, Terrible Towel holding and waving, and observance of whatever other customs Steelers fans partake in. I can still remember rolling my eyes and thinking it was cute at the same time.

That’s the kind of fan my husband is. To know him is to know he roots for the Steelers; if it doesn’t come out of his mouth, there’s probably an emblem or something black and yellow on or near his person. His parents were from Pittsburgh, and there was never any other team in the house. Matt was, perhaps, the sort of man who took for granted any woman in his life would be a Steelers fan too.

But I am another sort of football fan entirely. My father, who grew up on Cleveland’s west side, had the game on every Sunday through the falls and winters of my childhood. My mom actually went into labor with me on one of those chilly Sundays. When she told my dad it was time to go to the hospital, he said, “Can’t it wait until the game’s over?” I was born just after dinnertime, and Cleveland beat Miami at home 30-24. Growing up I never really watched the games; I was more likely in my room with my face in a book or magazine. But the sound of a game on in the background evokes the homey feeling of being tucked into the warm house on a wintery afternoon.

I was in the car with my dad on that November morning in 1995 when the news of the team moving to Baltimore came on the radio. A thing he loved, an institution of his youth, was gone overnight; I thought he was going to cry. Sure, we built another Browns, but for a long time, it felt like football in Cleveland would never be the same. Maybe it still isn’t.

The first time I brought Matt home to my parents’ house was late December 2002. We were in town to celebrate New Year, and the Browns happened to be playing the Steelers later that week. I’m sure a few good-natured words were exchanged about the fact that Matt had a Terrible Towel draped over the back seat of his Honda Civic, which was parked in my father’s driveway, deep in Browns territory. But neither man flinched.

When Matt and I went to the movies later that night, I said as he parked, “Maybe you should take that towel down.”

He said, like I was crazy, “No way. I’m never taking my Terrible Towel down.”

I shrugged, and I’d be willing to bet for the next two or so hours, he never second-guessed this decision. I can’t remember what movie we saw. But when we came out of the theater, Matt’s car was covered in broken eggs, mustard, and ketchup (Heinz, I secretly hoped), no doubt purchased at the Kmart Supercenter across the street. Matt still suspects I called my friends to coordinate this attack. But I didn’t have to.

As the story often goes, the Steelers beat the Browns a few days later, 36-33. Matt never was able to get all the egg off that car. And every football season when I remind him and say, “I told you so,” I know he still doesn’t regret leaving his Terrible Towel in full view.

We’ve been together all these years, and I have, in many ways, been indoctrinated into the Steelers fandom. Our firstborn was named after the creator of the Terrible Towel (I’m not kidding—as soon as we found out we were having a boy, no other names were allowed on the table). The lucky football food is served on my kitchen table. I still spend Sundays with my face in a book, but the games in the background are always the Steelers. Matt bought me a jersey and a pair of black and yellow earrings, and I wear them dutifully every game day, except for when the Steelers play the Browns. Because even though I’ve watched the Browns lose that game almost every year (you see that Pittsburgh, I said almost), I am still the kind of fan who can’t help but root for the home team.

This past August, during Matt’s annual pre-season preparations, he came across a graphic that broke down the number of AFC titles per team in the division. He shared it with me because, of course, the number next to his team’s emblem was far greater than the one next to the Browns helmet.

When he smiled victoriously and asked me what I thought, I said, “What do you want me to say? Your team has a better record than mine? You should know that being a Browns fan is very different from being a Steelers fan. You would probably be a completely different person if your team was the Browns.” I was thinking specifically of his smugness, though I didn’t say that aloud. I continued, “But if I stopped being a Browns fan, you probably wouldn’t like me as much.”

I was right. Obviously, as the record shows, my presence hadn’t jinxed the team, as he’d once feared. And maybe, this whole time, it wouldn’t have been as fun to win or lose. I know my dad appreciates that I didn’t marry a Ravens fan. And from a Steelers fan’s perspective, it could be worse: I could root for the Patriots.

One last thing I can say for sure, reporting from the inside, the rivalry is alive and well.