The Unbeautiful Game: Cleveland, Buffalo, and the Dismal NFL

Is there such a thing as a Cleveland-Buffalo rivalry? I spent part of my week here in Cleveland studying this important question. The two cities and their respective teams are very similar. Less than 200 miles of I-90 separate them. Both towns are maximum Rust Belt. Buffalo hasn't really been the same since William McKinley was assassinated there. Cleveland never recovered from the Great Depression. Look at these two, sitting there, staring across the brown-gray waters of Lake Erie, waiting for the other to blink first.

In a logical universe, you might expect places as similar as Cleveland and Buffalo to ally together to take on America's smug, much less snowy regions. But a logical universe doesn't account for the narcissism of small, shitty differences. Sure, Buffalo and Cleveland have a lot in common, but that just makes beating each other in stuff all the more important. This is exactly why we have sports.

Ah, but these fair cities overlap in just one big-league sport. So any rivalry will have to come via football. The Bills and Browns, even though they've been AFC neighbors for 44 years, have only played 18 times in the regular season, and, unsurprisingly, just once in the postseason. Both teams boast proud traditions, but are usually bad in hilarious/gut-wrenching ways. Of course, neither team is particularly charismatic or interesting, but—hold this thought— is any NFL team in the salary cap era charismatic or interesting?

While they might still be boring, neither the Browns or Bills of 2014 are as bad as usual. The similarities start here. Each has a lumpy, uncomfortable looking Italian-American coach. In fact, Cleveland's Mike Pettine jumped ship from Buffalo's DC chair in the off-season, after several dozen other coaches spurned the Browns' advances. Both squads boast sturdy defenses, talented young wideouts, and journeyman QBs who look more like grad students than NFL alphas.

Bam, instant rivalry. We've successfully set the stage for a scorching backyard brawl between two blue-collar teams with everything to lose. Browns versus Bills: Rust Belt extra-divisional pride is on the line.

Which brings us to the 2014 Sadness Bowl, which occurred Sunday in Buffalo, and, for obvious reasons (the teams involved), was a comprehensive flop—not just as the first chapter of a budding rivalry, but as an activity for human beings to participate in or observe. A stagnant, penalty-marbled first half gave way to a less stagnant but still putrid second half. The Browns scalded themselves with repeated turnovers, and the Bills graciously throttled them. Brian Hoyer wrapped up his month-long Turning Back Into a Pumpkin Tour, and gave way to America's favorite sexy gremlin, Johnny Manziel. The Bills elbowed their way back into the "possible first-round playoff loser" frame.

So we can admit that "Browns vs. Bills 19: This Time They're Both Sort of Competitive" failed to steal America's heart. It turns out that it takes more than a setup to make a rivalry—the game has to be good, too. This is a persistent issue, across every spectator sport. Elective affinities and overlaid narratives can only get us to watch, It's up to the game itself—the product—to not suck.

Bear with me for a second as I slip this Andy Rooney mask on. The NFL has carefully structured its rules to ensure nearly all of its lucrative franchises can field a competitive team most seasons, barring injuries or disastrous management. A hard salary cap with a hard floor ensures that clubs spend roughly the same amount on talent.

An NFL team in 2014 is a big machine, about as inherently charismatic as a stock car and every team runs on the same engine, by league rules. That artificial leveling generates standings churn. By playing mediocre football, even teams like the Browns and Bills can stay relevant into December and energize their fanbases. But there's an inherent danger to the NFL's racing formula: it can result in slogging mediocrity masquerading as a football game. Like what happened in Buffalo on Sunday.

Of course, not every game can be thrilling. Kyle Orton will always be with us. The strategically limited number of NFL games and the epidemic popularity of the sport seemingly guarantee huge profits for the foreseeable future. The sport is a fabulously effective framework for the delivery of dick pill advertisements.

But as actual entertainment, the NFL sucks a little bit more with each passing season, and not just because concussions and off-field crime suck the wind out of the fan experience. The NFL has incrementally rewritten its rule book to protect QBs and the passing game. This is great if you're watching teams with competent passers and receivers. Unfortunately, there aren't enough of either.

The blizzard of pass interference and defensive holding calls isn't fun to watch, but on its own, a slight increase in canary-colored projectiles won't kill the NFL. But combined with incessant TV timeouts, replay reviews, challenges, and long delays for the slow moving carts that seem to take a handful of players off the field each game, consuming four consecutive quarters of NFL football is becoming increasingly difficult.

For every Aaron Rodgers-Tom Brady battle, we get several shades of Orton-Hoyer. Cleveland and Buffalo are about as interchangeable on the field as most of America perceives them to be off it. A football game can generate meaning in more than one way—emotional stakes, on-field excitement, problematic gambling—but in the absence of all three, you might as well skip the stale bread and boring circuses of the NFL. Carbs are bad for you anyway.