I am a Cleveland Browns fan. For the first time in forever, I can freely announce this fact without expecting a sympathetic reply.

For years I have been a die-hard fan of the Browns, but whenever I would wear my team’s jersey in public, I would receive the pity of fans from other NFL teams. Since I’ve lived in numerous states from New York to Georgia, I was constantly an outsider in my orange and brown. The mere mention of the Cleveland Browns would result in comments such as “Oh, you poor thing!” or “Wow, that must be tough.”

However, being a fan means cheering for your team, regardless of their record. And Browns fans, it looks like our years of devotion have paid off. Perhaps I’m speaking too soon. I certainly don’t mean to jinx our team. But we are in second place! Okay, yes, I realize that we aren’t alone in second, but I also know that we are only out of first by half a game. This is an exciting time for Browns fans.

I grew up with football being an integral part of my Sunday. I remember waking up to the smell of spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove. My family would get dressed and ready for church, leaving the sauce to simmer while we worshiped at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Niles. After the service, we’d return home and everyone rushed around to get the pasta cooking, the table set, and change out of our church clothes.

Dad always made the best sauce from tomatoes he grew in the garden. We’d have handmade meatballs and a fresh green salad with vinegar and oil dressing. It was a delicious meal, but not one that was usually savored slowly. It was usually consumed with the speed of those who didn’t want to miss kick-off. We did not watch television from the table and we did not eat dinner in the family room.

Things have changed since I was a kid. But not so very much.

On Sunday, I put the sauce on the stove around noon along with the water for the pasta. The sauce wasn’t made from tomatoes from my garden. It was poured from a can. The meatballs weren’t handmade. They were from a bag. There was no salad. By the time the game started, the kids and I were all sitting in the family room, each of us with a bowl of spaghetti in our lap, cheering on our team.

I like that I’m carrying on the tradition of Sunday spaghetti and Browns football. But even more so, I like that my children are growing up with a different sort of Cleveland team. A team with a winning record. A team with hope.

It’s nice to be back home in Ohio during this football season. There is an electricity in the air. We are excited. We cheer each time Gordon makes an amazing catch or Crowell rushes for a first down. We hold our collective breath each time Hoyer makes a long pass, because we all know it’s just as likely to be intercepted as caught. We like Johnny Football, but still, we don’t want to turn him into another Brady or Couch.

More often than not, I still hear the usual “I’m sorry” when I reveal my favorite team, but I think it’s more an ingrained response from others. They are used to the Browns being pathetic. They are accustomed to our pain. They are almost as surprised as we Browns fans are.

I have experienced something quite new on Sunday afternoons. At first I thought it was indigestion from too much spaghetti. But then I realized that it was happiness. I was smiling, laughing, and whooping it up while watching the Browns play. I feel pride. I feel excitement. I feel optimism and anticipation. The Browns may not be perfect, but they’re getting closer every Sunday.

No matter what, they’ll always be my team, because nothing goes better with Sunday spaghetti than Cleveland Browns football.

Write to Laurie Esposito Harley at columns@tribtoday.com