Wherever
that couch is, there is still a dent in the cushion left by my leaden butt
after Red Right 88 ended our dreams of a Browns’ Superbowl appearance in 1981.
I don’t think I moved for hours, maybe days, stupefied. Food had to be brought
to me, as if I was bedridden. And comatose.
I
say this for those who weren’t around at the time, so they know exactly how devastating that loss was. Playing the endless loop of the wayward end
zone pass that landed in defender Mike Davis’ hands instead of Ozzie Newsome’s.
With less than a minute left! With the ball on the opponent’s 13 yard line, in
easy range for a winning field goal!
This
is important, because the one-man production The Kardiac Kid, by playwright and
performer Eric Schmiedl and now at Cleveland Public Theatre, treads on sensitive and depressingly sacred ground. If
he doesn’t get the vibe right about this event, then the whole play lands like
a leaden Mike Phipp’s incompletion.
Happily,
Schmiedl approaches the tragedy with the proper amount of gravitas, inching up
on it as he takes us through the entire 1980 Browns’ season. Diagramming plays
and showing photos on an overhead projector (a nice ‘80s touch), he captures
the essence of the Browns team under coach Sam Rutigliano and quarterback Brian
Sipe.
But
the playwright and director Bill Hoffman do much more than that, by following
four different storylines of fans who were affected by the eventual cataclysm.
Teenage girl Abigail, the Catholic priest Father Carey, tool & die man
Eddie (along with his magic Browns knit cap) and busboy-turned-assistant-chef
Henry are each living their lives while intertwined with the fate of their
city’s beloved team.
As
a writer, Schmiedl has a pointillist’s eye for telling details, taking the time
to observe how Abigail treasures her new school clothes, how the priest relates
to his sly old hound Stanley, and relishing the aroma of west side Eddie’s
chicken paprikash.
And
as a performer, Schmiedl is enormously warm and folksy without being cloying.
Speaking primarily as a narrator, he leads us through the tale of woe with a
gangly, softly modulated honesty that always rings true. At times, he feels
like the Cleveland version of Will Rogers, calm and affable, except in those
moments when his temper flares over The Pick or our hated rivals in Pittspuke,
er, burgh.
Interestingly,
Schmiedl doesn’t simmer in the rancid juices of that play, he just steps up to
it and then stops. This may be frustrating for those who don’t have a profound,
visceral memory of what happened that day more than 30 years ago.
And
the playwright makes a couple stutter steps in the wrong direction, especially
when he drags in maudlin scenes involving Henry’s love life and a kitchen
mishap. Plus, he can’t resist a thematic summing up at the end that undercuts
the subtlety he has employed throughout.
Still,
The Kardiac Kid is a poignant love letter to the Browns, to the city and to
those who suffer to this day in our orange and brown knit caps. With a pom pom
on top.
The
Kardiac Kid
Through
October 20 at Cleveland Public Theatre, 6415 Detroit Ave., 216-631-2727.
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