The Cleveland Browns expected this week’s media session with offensive coordinator Tommy Rees to be a routine update on preparations, weather conditions, and incremental improvements from their young players.

Instead, it quickly turned into a referendum on the most controversial play call of the Browns’ season—a two-point conversion attempt that removed Shedeur Sanders from the field at the most critical moment of the game.

For Cleveland fans still furious over the decision and analysts still dissecting it frame by frame, this press conference represented the first real opportunity to hear Rees explain the thought process behind a move that has been labeled everything from misguided to outright sabotage.

 

To understand the anger, one must revisit what happened.

Sanders had just engineered back-to-back clinical touchdown drives, showcasing the poise, arm talent, and playmaking instinct that made him one of the most electric rookies in football.

He had 364 yards and four touchdowns—arguably his best performance as a professional.

And with the game on the line, with momentum clearly in Cleveland’s favor, the Browns sent out a goal-line gadget package and pulled Sanders from the play.

The conversion failed.

The game slipped away.

And Cleveland imploded in national conversation once again.

 

So when Tommy Rees stepped to the podium, the room was tense even before the first question was asked.

Reporters had spent days re-watching the play, examining alignments, and gathering data on two-point tendencies across the league.

Fans had stormed social media with demands for accountability.

Even neutral observers wondered how a team could justify removing its most productive player from the game’s most decisive snap.

From the outset, Rees attempted to keep the discussion general, focusing first on weather, preparation, and Cleveland’s notoriously unpredictable winds coming off Lake Erie.

He spoke about player discipline, footwork progressions, and the incremental improvements Sanders had shown in pocket movement, timing, and decision-making.

He described how the young quarterback was learning to climb, escape, throw on the move, and process deeper into progressions—details that sounded encouraging, even textbook.

 

But the reporters in the room had only one destination in mind, and they kept steering him there.

Each question tightened the circle around the two-point conversion, and each time Rees tried to widen it again, speaking about “young players,” “overall growth,” and “team execution.” It did not go unnoticed.

The subtle evasions only fueled the tension, especially for those who believed the Browns have developed a habit of burying individual accountability under organizational language.

 

Eventually, the moment arrived.

A reporter framed the question carefully but directly: Why was Shedeur Sanders taken off the field on the final play? Rees exhaled slowly, choosing his words with visible deliberation.

 

“If that play works,” he said, “it’s a completely different conversation.”

It was a familiar coaching cliché—one frequently used to justify a decision after the fact—but it did nothing to quiet the criticism.

For many, it sounded like deflection.

For the more frustrated voices, it sounded like an insult. The play did not work.

And what fans wanted—what Sanders’ advocates demanded—was an explanation grounded in logic, not hypotheticals.

 

Rees pressed on, detailing the Browns’ procedural approach.

He explained that the team prepares a “menu” of two-point plays every week, repping them at full speed every Friday against the defense, ensuring both precision and comfort.

The plays used in the game, he said, were the same plays they had practiced successfully.

They had been on the board “for probably a month,” rehearsed, refined, and discussed at length.

By the coaching staff’s belief, the play was ready.

Executable. Reliable.

 

What he did not say—what the entire room noticed he did not say—was why that preparation required Sanders to be replaced with a short-yardage package.

He insisted the decision was “more about the play than the individual,” but that only deepened the controversy.

When a quarterback is playing at a historic level, when he is clearly in rhythm, and when his very presence dictates defensive alignment, removing him becomes a statement whether the coaching staff intends it or not.

To Sanders’ supporters, the subtext is impossible to ignore.

 

Rees attempted to steer the conversation toward the technical aspects: coverage indicators, protection structures, execution details, and the differences between short-yardage concepts in the middle of the field versus short-yardage concepts at the goal line.

There are, he argued, schematic reasons why a run-based or option-based package might be preferable.

But the more granular he became, the more the fundamental question resurfaced: Why design a play that eliminates the team’s best player from influencing the outcome?

His answer, again, framed the issue in terms of coaching reliability.

 

“We have to do a better job making sure the players can execute in those moments,” he repeated, placing responsibility on the staff rather than the roster.

 

But that phrasing—“the players”—was another sore point.

When fans demanded accountability, they wanted the coaching staff to admit that taking Sanders off the field was the wrong decision.

Not that the players needed to execute better.

Not that weather was a variable. Not that tendencies dictated the choice.

They wanted ownership of the mistake.

 

Rees acknowledged that discussions about two-point plays often begin before the final drive even starts, with coaches setting predetermined calls based on game situation, score differentials, and matchup scouting.

He insisted that by the time Sanders reached the red zone on that final march, the team “knew the call,” had “prepared for it,” and believed in it.

But every justification he provided only highlighted the contradiction at the heart of the decision: if the team trusted the play, why didn’t it trust the quarterback running the offense?

The reaction beyond the podium has been explosive.

Analysts on morning shows labeled the call “indefensible.” Former quarterbacks called it “a breach of trust.” Fans have demanded accountability from Kevin Stefanski and now from Rees as well.

The loudest critics argue that this decision symbolizes a deeper issue inside the Browns: inconsistency in leadership, risk aversion bordering on sabotage, and a disconnect between the coaching staff’s philosophy and the team’s most dynamic player.

 

But there is also a quieter, more nuanced interpretation emerging.

Rees’ insistence that Sanders is improving, that his processing is speeding up, that his mechanics are sharpening, suggests a coaching staff that views him as a long-term investment rather than a short-term miracle worker.

In that light, the decision—though unquestionably flawed in its outcome—may not be a comment on Sanders’ ability, but a symptom of a staff trying to control variables rather than unleash their quarterback.

 

Still, for a franchise already under scrutiny, the optics were disastrous.

Sanders didn’t just earn the right to take the final snap—he demanded it through his performance.

Players notice that.

Fans notice that.

And the league notices that.

The Browns, once again, find themselves in familiar territory: defending a decision that defies intuition, logic, and competitive identity.

Tommy Rees’ press conference, though thorough in technical detail, did little to stem the backlash.

If anything, it underscored the widening divide between coaching intent and public perception.

 

In the weeks ahead, the Browns will have opportunities to correct course.

But the memory of that failed two-point conversion—and the decision to remove the quarterback who had carried them—will linger long after the next kickoff.

In a season defined by thin margins and viral moments, this one may become a defining chapter in the evolving relationship between Shedeur Sanders, the Browns’ coaching staff, and an increasingly restless fan base.