Who-Dey Time

by: Steve

This Sunday, the Cincinnati Bengals take the field against the Pittsburgh Steelers in their first playoff game since 1990. Only one word can sum up my current emotions:
"YYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAA#%$#%#$#!!!!!!!%%%##$%#ZLFOIVBANDLTKWO;JAJBALDJFGLAWOEJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Let me just explain a little something to you here. In fact, let me tell you a story. (Ah, ah, ah, don’t you dare change the web address on me. Ok, if you sit through this, I promise to show you a picture of a naked woman at the end. Eagle Scout’s honor. Deal? Alright, then…) In 1988, there was a seven year old boy living peacefully in Lima, Ohio. He was just starting the second grade, and the world was full of new and exciting things. Things like pizza day in the school cafeteria, and, oh my God, oh my God… NINTENDO! Mike Tyson’s Punch Out! The Legend of Zelda! Was there anything else in life?

Well, as he would soon find out, there was something else in life. It was called the Cincinnati Bengals. Our hero was a Bengals fan by birthright (one of only two ways to be a true, true, blood and guts fan of a team. But that’s another column). In 1988, the Bengals raced off to a 6-0 start, immediately taking command of the former AFC Central, and never looked back. They were led by such Cincinnati legends as MVP quarterback Boomer Esiason, speedy running back James Brooks, one hit wonder Ickey Woods, and a defensive secondary that rightfully earned the nickname, "The Swat Team."

It was a glorious season, watching Boomer carve up defenses with his revolutionary no-huddle offense and a play-action fake that remains unrivaled to this day. The "Who Dey" chant was born. (If you require an explanation of the term "who dey," ask me later, as its true diction is embarrassing to say the least, and will only disrupt the flow of the story. But I guess I already did that, huh? Oops.) The Ickey Shuffle was born. Hudepohl, a Cincinnati brewer, came out with "Who Dey" beer, complete with a growling Bengal tiger on the side of the can. And yes, my dad still has a can of "Who Dey" beer from 1988 somewhere, and yes, he claims he’s going to drink it whenever the Bengals win a Super Bowl, and yes, I’m going to hold him to it, and yes, it will most likely involve a hospital visit.

January found the Bengals tearing through the playoffs, defeating the Bills for the AFC Championship, and making a trip to Joe Robbie stadium in Miami for Super Bowl XXIII against the San Francisco 49’ers and a certain gentleman by the name of Joe Montana. Our young hero was wide-eyed with excitement and anticipation. He had yet to feel the horrible sting of a crushing defeat, and his sports fan heart was innocent and pure.

That fateful night, his world would come crashing down around him, and he would be changed forever. In the third quarter, Stanford Jennings returned a 49’ers kickoff 93 yards for a touchdown. This seemed to be the Bengals’ night. With 3 minutes to play, they led 16-13, and Joe Cool took over on the 49’ers own 8 yard line.

Well, you can probably guess what happened next. The Comeback Kid (yes, Joe Montana, not Jason Giambi) drove 92 yards and hit John Taylor in the end zone in the dying seconds to secure a 20-16 San Fran victory.

Our young hero was dumbfounded. What happened? It wasn’t supposed to end like this! The Bengals weren’t supposed to lose! They were supposed to squash the competition like bugs, and raise the Lombardi trophy over their collective head, and carry Sam Wyche off the field, and ride back into Cincinnati on giant Clydesdale horses, as champions of the world. All of them together, Boomer, Brooks, Eddie, Ira, Horton, Ickey, Munoz, Krumrie, Fulcher, and Breech.

Terrified, and not knowing where to turn, our hero fled the scene and holed up in his parents’ bedroom, too embarrassed to let anyone see him cry. He wasn’t even sure why he was crying, but he couldn’t stop the tears. The world was a cruel, cruel place. And, for the moment, he wanted nothing to do with it.

Two years later, in the ’90-’91 season, the Bengals returned to the playoffs but lost in the second round. What followed from there was a record-setting thirteen year stretch of futility. And I mean record-setting literally. In the 1990s, the Bengals set the record for the worst winning percentage over a given decade of any professional sports team in history. Not just in the NFL. ANY PROFESSIONAL SPORTS TEAM IN HISTORY. The ineptitude dragged on, with no end in sight, with enough hopelessness to make Job lose faith.

But the true fans stayed true. The real who-dey’ers among us never lost faith. Because we knew that one day redemption would come. No one would accuse us of bandwagoning when legitimacy returned to the Jungle. Sure, there might be four presidential elections or so before that day, but nevertheless, it would come.

In 2003, redemption arrived in the Queen City in the form of Marvin Lewis. Finally, a head coach who had the character to stand up to idiots like Corey Dillon and Takeo Spikes and tell them that if they didn’t want to be here, we didn’t want them here either. After two promising 8-8 seasons and the brilliant development of three or four years of draft picks, it was time. The Bengals were back. The Jungle was the Jungle again. "Who Dey" meant "Who Dey" again. And finally, for the first time since Operation Desert Storm, there would be playoff football, on the river, in January, in Cincinnati.

Like many things in life, true fan loyalty can only be built over time. It is built by being there, unflinchingly, through the wins, losses, ups, downs, moments of elation, and stabbing wounds of defeat. It is sharpened during the times when no one else is looking. When the nation has forgotten about your team, and you’re the only one left in the stands, clutching a program your dad bought for you, so you could cut out the pictures and hang them on your bedroom wall. It does not arrive in a city as a Christmas gift, where thousands of people are transformed overnight into makeshift fans because the Browns moved to Baltimore and changed their name to the Ravens. A city that wins a championship with a three year old team does not know true fan loyalty. They weren’t there for the Dark Ages. They never had to defend their team in the face of ridiculing pundits when their team lay bleeding and lifeless in the gutter.

That’s why this Sunday is more than just a game for us true fans. It’s the eradication of fifteen years of heartache. It’s our reward for never losing faith. We’ve worn the stripes proudly our entire lives and we’re a laughingstock no more.

I was seven years old when I hid in my parents’ bedroom and cried after Super Bowl XXIII. Next month I’m going to be 25. When the day finally comes that the men in black and orange bring home a winner and hoist the Lombardi trophy, I can promise you right now, I’m going to bawl like a little boy. Only this time, I won’t be ashamed.

Um, the column’s over, what are you still doing here? You can go home now. What? Oh, you’re looking for the picture of the naked woman? You, sucker…I’m not an Eagle Scout.