I’ve never had a lump in my throat extend down to my stomach before.
The Cleveland Indians have changed their name.
At least the new name ends with –dians.
I had already planned on blogging this summer about my love affair with my star-crossed team.
The Cleveland Indians are an emotional connection to good times, however, my earliest memories aren’t so stellar: As a 4-year-old sitting restlessly out in the sun-baked bleachers of the gigantic old Municipal Stadium, all cement and ugly yellow birck with too young to care about the game of baseball and bored, I ran along empty rows, running my hands over decrepit wooden benches and acquiring countless, stinging slivers in the palm of my right hand. Agony. My folks took a look, scolded me half-heartedly, and returned to the game. And you wonder why I am independent?
Flash forward years later: I am rabidly joining the entire bleachers torturing Yankee Joe Pepitone, taunting “hit it to Pepitone, he’ll muff it,” until he finally turned to us, scowling. We were vicious. Shades of Lord of the Flies. It was fun. Yikes.
The bathrooms in Municipal Stadium had a “long, rusted pipes” décor and smelled of one thousand damp basements. Kinda had to pysch up to go in and face the non-descript, grey-grouted yellow brick. Upon entering, plug your nose and breathe through your mouth. There, at a young age, I perfected my squatting technique in frightening stalls, which came in handy decades later, pregnant along back roads of Mexico.
Still, I remember years of carefree summer weeknights when we would pile into the car and drive down Chester Avenue to Municipal Stadium. Cavernous and nearly empty, we had our pick of General Admission seats and always chose right field. Mitt in hand, along with my brothers, in all honesty, I was afraid I would cower if a ball actually came my way. But I knew every player’s number, I kept track of every ‘at bat’ on the scorecard, and at the end of every season, in the fan parking lot waiting for our turn to exit, listening to Jimmy Dudley sign off, “lotsa good luck, ya heah?” we commiserated, “Maybe next year,” like every other Clevelander.
It smelled cold.
Kathy and I still laugh about her furry, turquoise earmuffs, hastily put over her ears during Friday night fireworks or whenever the tribe hit a homer. To this day she hates explosions.
Peanuts, popcorn four for a quarter . . .
We’d often go spur of the moment. When my family went to the ball park, it was a signal that my unstable mother was ok. Not that I processed that consciously as a child. I just knew for 3-plus hours, I could relax.
Once, post-game, in the players parking row, I saw Rocky Colavito slam a fan against his Cadillac because the guy had been leaning against it. Sudden Sam McDowell refused to come out of the dressing room to thank my little brother for the lamp he had lovingly made for his idol. In the cement concourse next to the bullpen, shyly, I asked catcher Joe Azcue to sign my autograph book. I hard-crushed on Max Alvis throughout an awkward adolescence, and I cried for an entire weekend when my parents wouldn’t let me see The Monkees perform there.
Summer Sunday afternoons were often spent in my folks’ bedroom, hot dogs with stadium mustard, chips, and cream soda on trays, Indians on TV.
Remember the 1994 players strike when they were in contention? Told you, star-crossed.
I would have killed for a ticket to the 1997 World Series at Jacobs Field. A chance to connect to a happy part of my childhood. My folks were invited to a game. From Florida, they drove north. I cautioned my father, “Dad, wear something warm.” But no, he wore plaid golf pants and a windbreaker. It snowed: “The wind was right in our faces. Everybody was bundled up with coats, blankets, scarves, and hats. You didn’t see people eating hot dogs—they were all drinking hot chocolate and coffee.”
The Indians won the game 10-3.
My parents left in the 3rd inning.
I will forever be an Indians fan.
Peanuts, popcorn, four for a quarter . . .
Love this! I remember everything. But does anyone like explosions?! Haaaa