On baseball and losing
A reflection on the end of the team I shared with my Dad
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fan of Major League Baseball’s Cleveland Indians. My fandom certainly dates back to when I was young & naive enough to not realize all that’s inherently problematic in the team’s name or in the horrendous logos they used for decades.
Cleveland was a couple hours away from my hometown of Coshocton, OH. The driving distance precluded many in-person games as a child, but I grew up with Indians games on the radio and television. My Dad took my brother and I to our first game on June 18, 1988. I remember he bought us tee shirts and hot dogs. That would’ve been our first introduction to the finest condiment known to civilization and the only thing that truly belongs on a hot dog: Bertman’s Ball Park Mustard.
The team still played in cavernous, decrepit Municipal Stadium. Julio Franco, my favorite player at the time, started at shortstop. To my delight, Joe Carter and Brook Jacoby and Andy Allanson were also in the lineup for the Tribe that day. The New York Yankees were in town, with future Indians Joel Skinner and Dave Winfield taking the field. It was the late 1980’s, so Cleveland obviously lost.
A few years later, I was playing out in the backyard when Dad came sprinting out from the house. Starting catcher Sandy Alomar, Jr. was going on the injury list and the Tribe was calling up a 23-year old rookie catcher named Eddie Taubensee to take his place. Taubensee was a distant relative of ours who neither Dad nor I had ever met.
We made the trek to Cleveland that Saturday for Taubensee’s Big League debut, catching Charlie Nagy. I distinctly remember Rickey Henderson swiping a bag off of Nagy & Taubensee, but I also remember how excited Dad was when the kid correctly sprinted up the base line to back up Carlos Baerga on a play at the hot corner. Dad had a thing for good baseball fundamentals. It was the early 1990’s, so Cleveland obviously lost.
I have countless memories of Cleveland baseball and my Dad on which I look back fondly. The 2011 game on Father’s Day where I bought tickets right behind the Cleveland dugout. We waited out a rain delay for a walk-off home run by Cord Phelps. It was Phelps’ first career homer and would prove to be half of his entire career output.
I remember the tears welling in Dad’s eyes after the ALCS in ’95. We’d switched the TV broadcast off and were listening to the radio. Manager Mike Hargrove ran up to broadcaster Herb Score who was on air in the locker room. The normally staid Grover yelled, “Hey Herbie, we’re going to the Series!” They did in fact go to the Series. It was the mid-1990’s, so Cleveland obviously lost.
The first time Seattle’s Ichiro Suzuki came to town, we snagged tickets out in RF to watch him play. In 2007, Dad called me from the left field bleachers at Jacobs Field. He hadn’t heard the news that Cleveland had reacquired Kenny Lofton until he turned around and saw #7’s name on the scoreboard. In 2009, we traveled to Spring Training at the newly opened park in Goodyear, AZ.
Of course, I’ll never forget the joyous screaming through the phone after Rajai Davis’ Game 7 homer. Sadly, that would be the closest Dad ever got to seeing a winner. It was the Cubs, so Cleveland obviously lost.
One year ago today, I lost Dad to Parkinson’s Disease and a lifetime of backbreaking work in a paper mill. He was two weeks past a birthday that my brother & I both traveled home to celebrate with him. The first round of the playoffs had just concluded. It was 2020, so Cleveland obviously lost.
This soon-to-conclude 2021 season of Cleveland Indians baseball has, therefore, been the first in my life I’ve not shared with my Dad. I can’t tell you how many times I picked up the phone to text him about a game. The one constant in my summers just hasn’t been there.
My life wouldn’t be what it is without these memories of Dad and I sharing Cleveland baseball. The Tribe provided enjoyment and something we could hold in common while navigating the inherent stresses in a father-son relationship. No matter what else was going on, Dad and I had a bond over the Cleveland Indians. The team was, in some ways, the third leg in our interpersonal stool that allowed us to not topple.
Now, today, exactly one year to the day after I lost Dad, I’m losing the glue that held us together. At 3:05 PM Eastern in Arlington, TX, the Cleveland Indians will take the field for the last time under that name. It’s 2021, so they’ve obviously already lost out on the playoffs this year.
There’ll still be a Cleveland baseball team, but they won’t be the Indians. After 106 years of a racially insensitive name and some truly horrifying logos, the team is consigning the “Indians” name to its rightful place in the dustbin of history.
I could’ve written this piece bemoaning the change. I could’ve talked about how the Indians were a central part in all those memories of Dad, how they were part of our Northeastern Ohio heritage. Others who should know better have certainly taken that approach.
I could’ve dipped into Louis Sockalexis story, Cleveland’s own lost cause myth.
I could’ve tried to rationalize the scoreboard illustration the team used to display when my aforementioned favorite player Julio Franco came to bat: a full-bodied Chief Wahoo making smoke signals that successively read “Who?”, “Who???”, “Julio!” The blatantly racist treatment wasn’t reserved for Franco, I also remember them displaying a bowl of spaghetti when Paul Sorrento, a first baseman of Italian descent, strode to the plate.
The thing is, though, in addition to teaching me to love baseball, Dad also taught me to be a decent person. To consider the effects of my actions on others. To have some compassion and empathy. To not be a racist.
I’ve missed Dad every single day for the last year, but I won’t miss the Indians after today. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to this day for years. In more than 40 years of watching losses by this baseball team, this is the first and only one for which I’ve actively rooted.
I’m grateful for my memories and for the time I spent watching baseball with my father. I’ll still think of him every time I listen to the team play, no matter what they’re called. I’ll finally be able to speak publicly about our fandom of the team without feeling guilty about the name.
Dad won’t be here when Cleveland takes the field on March 31, 2022 as the Guardians. I won’t be able to talk to him on June 14 when they come to Denver’s Coors Field and I see them for the first time under the new name.
I’ll know how he’d feel if he were there, though, because it’s exactly the same way I’ll feel: excited, relieved, a little nervous, and hopeful for a win.
As we Cleveland fans are fond of saying, I can’t wait for next year… even though they’ll probably lose.
