Twenty Years and Counting

When I was five-years-old my father came down to breakfast one morning and, as he usually did, immediately went to the sports page of the Cincinnati Enquirer. Three seconds later he put the paper down.

The night before, the San Francisco 49ers had defeated Cincinnati 20-16 in Super Bowl XXIII. Joe Montana had led the Niners on a 92-yard drive in the final 3:10 to win the game. My father thought he could deal with the loss—after all, San Fran had done something similar seven years prior.

He couldn't.

My dad did not pick up a sports page for an entire year after that game. And still, to this day, he refuses to acknowledge anyone other than Joe Montana as the greatest quarterback in football history.

Three minutes and 10 seconds from glory. Every year the pill gets bigger. I'm not sure if he (or any Bengal fan old enough to remember) has ever been able to swallow it.

In the twenty years since Joe's drive Cincinnati has become a punchline to the rest of the NFL. The '90s were a disaster and the majority of this decade has been a failure as well. As a fanbase we've sat through Akili Smith and Ki-Jana Carter. We've had our hopes dashed by David Klingler and Dan Wilkinson.

We watch as the team in orange and black continues—year after year—to let solid players go to free agency and sign others that nobody else wants. We grumble when the front office refuses to hire more scouts or actually hire a real general manager (some fans even bought billboard space to voice their disgust).

We have dealt with Chris Henry and Chad and all the other off-the-field issues that seem to never pop up when you talk about winning franchises like the Steelers and Patriots.

We've been to places only Lions fans can relate to.

There is hope, though. Or at least there was.

The Bengals looked as if they turned the corner in 2005. They won their division and were headed to the playoffs for the first time in 15 years. The excitement was over before halftime.

Carson Palmer, the one first round, skill-position player in 15 years not to become a bust, writhed on the turf of Paul Brown Stadium. The city then watched as Pittsburgh went on to win yet another ring. It was the same story. This time we just got to play one more game.

Much of Cincinnati has grown cynical and indifferent and angry over the last two decades. Quite a few fans have stopped supporting the franchise all together. It's hard to blame them.

So why do so many of us still pull for this dysfunctional team? Because, to a lot of us, 1989 is too close to forget.

I remember the various Super Bowl parties in my West Side neighborhood and the excitement at school. I remember how electric downtown was and how much fun it felt to be from the city by the river.

But more than anything else, I remember how thrilled my dad was when San Francisco took over on its own eight yard line with 3:10 to go. We were going to win the Super Bowl. There was no doubting it.

Those days building up to Super Bowl XXIII launched me into my Bengal fandom. Those final three minutes and 10 seconds engraved my loyalty to the most frustrating team in professional sports.

The Bengals were so close once. They can be that close again. Palmer's healthy. There's still hope.