Brown, who is 86, gets to his office every day between 6 a.m. and 6:30 six days a week (on Sundays he’s there by 8:30) and the first thing he does is feed the birds. “I only feed the birds breakfast. They get a scoop a day. That’s it. I’m not going to spend the rest of my day feeding birds.’’
Substitute the words “guards’’ or “safeties’’ or “Andrew Whitworth’’ for “birds’’ and maybe it all becomes clear to you.
We’re not here to discuss that. Not today. Many times I’ve entered Mike’s bright and sunny inner sanctum over the past 22 years, to rummage through his bright and intimidating mind for answers to why he ran the Bengals the way he did.
Not on this day. That’s past us now. The Bengals are winning; I’m exiting. The verbal fencing is done. I want to know about the birds.
“The thrill is when one of the Cooper’s hawks shows up,’’ Mike said. “You’ll get a bunch of feathers down on the’’ ground. Woe to the hungry mourning dove.
For years, Mike fed the birds in the backyard of his Indian Hill home. He stopped after the raccoons started ransacking the feeders. Mike fed the deer, too – “right from my hands,’’ he said – until the neighbors made it known that deer were not welcome in their gardens. Now, Mike settles for watching the squirrels plunder his apple trees.
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