As the NFL playoffs commence and the Super Bowl approaches, even my gay friends are jumping on Tom Brady and the Patriots’ bandwagon. (Some of them would love to jump on Tom Brady.) Yet I remain unmoved, cold, disconnected. I have little interest in Brady, the Patriots, or other Boston teams -- and not because I am uninterested in sports. In fact, it is because of my interest that I mute the TV every time the Patriots are mentioned, just as I silence my television whenever Newt, Mitt or Rick Santorum begin to spout their wingnut ideologies for the Republican base. 

I am a fan of the Cleveland (football) Browns and the (baseball) Indians, a form of suffering and self-abuse I’ve been practicing for half a century. Given their propensity for losing, I have not experienced the vicarious thrill of winning a championship since the Browns won the NFL title in 1964, when I was just shy of 8 years old. Reflecting on my loyalty, stubbornness, addiction -- I have lived in Boston for 25 years, longer than I lived in Cleveland and yet I remain committed to those teams of my youth -- I experience the same emotions I used to feel when I saw gay or straight couples strolling along the Esplanade or in the South End, leaving me on the outside looking in.

I’ve spent most of my life watching, wishing, longing. As a boy, I was fascinated with other boys, particularly the athletic "jocks" who possessed the confidence and physical grace I lacked. I dreamed of wrestling with those boys, of being worthy of their attention. On a few occasions, they befriended me, but I felt unworthy of their friendship, hiding my sense of difference, carrying my secrets.

Since I couldn’t play baseball (I could hit the ball but threw "like a girl") or football, I became a fan. At Municipal Stadium down on the lakefront I could become one of the crowd, feeling the rafters literally rock under the stamping feet of 85,000 Clevelanders cheering their football team, one of the premier teams in the league when I was a small boy. (This was in direct contrast to the Indians, who usually pulled in about 10,000 folks to their baseball games, my friends and I lost among the rows of empty seats.)

Each team disappointed me in different ways. The Browns were like the Red Sox circa 2003, who could never win the big game -- close, but no cigar. Meanwhile the Indians were perennial losers, stunning in their consistency -- the Yankees in reverse -- low on cash, talent, and fans. Still, I loved -- and still love -- those teams, which bind me to the place I come from like my family name, my memories, and the broad, nasal Great Lakes accent I hear every time I call my mother back in Cleveland.

In a similar vein, I’ve watched many of my friends couple up and settle down. Some of them seem genuinely happy, contented. But today, after 25 years of being single, I’m not even sure if I’d want a full-time live-in boyfriend. Still, I would like to see how the other half lives, to have the experience of loving and being loved -- my own personal version of the Super Bowl.

The Patriots roll on toward another championship. The intensity builds along with the countdown to the game, the radio and television carrying updates to the faithful. As the hype goes on, I’m reminded of what I can control and the many things I can’t -- the fate of my Cleveland sports teams, the harshness of New England winters, Newt, Mitt and Rick and the yahoos who vote for them. 

And then considering all of this, I think of what is, to some extent, under my purview. The night of the big game I’m scheduled to do something I love, to teach a class in creative writing. In my life, I’m spending more time doing those things I care about -- telling stories, teaching -- and less time feeling envious, focusing on the boyfriend and relationship I do not have. 

I’m still holding out hope -- that the Browns will win a Super Bowl, that the Indians will win a World Series title, and that I’ll have a long-term relationship. 

After all, stranger things have happened.

Judah Leblang is a writer and teacher in Boston, and the author ofFinding My Place: One Man’s Journey from Cleveland to Boston and Beyond.