Hope Springs Eternal (Even as an Indians Fan…)

One of the most amazing things about my childhood was that my father managed to get us Opening Day tickets more than once. Dad would ferry me out of school under some pretense (or in the case of sixth grade, just telling the teacher to back off because we were going to the game) and we would head to County Stadium to see our beloved Brewers play.

Given the nature of Wisconsin weather and the usual condition of our teams during my childhood, Opening Day meant two things: Freezing our asses off and seeing the start of yet another year of baseball that wouldn’t end in a World Series. Still, it always meant something special: Family and the start of warmer days ahead.

It’s unclear to anyone but me where I made that imperceptible pivot from a Brewers fan to a Cleveland Indians fan, but I can pinpoint it to the moment. I was in sixth grade, we were in the front row of a Brewers/Indians night game and it started to rain. Everyone else went under the overhang at the stadium, but I stayed put. It was my first (and possibly only) time in the front row. Dad bought me an Indians hat, in hopes that some of the nearby visitors would wave or sign an autograph.

As I sat there, a little drown rat of a kid, Jamie Easterly emerged from the Indians dugout and began walking to the bullpen in right-centerfield.

“Throw me a ball!” I yelped, much louder than I thought I could.

He saw me, pulled a ball out of his pocket and tossed it to me. It hit me right in the hands.

And I dropped the damned thing.

There it sat, out of reach on the warning track. My one shot at a baseball ruined by butterfingers.

Easterly stopped and turned around. He jogged over, picked the ball up and put it in my hand. “Don’t drop it this time, kid,” he said in a mockingly admonishing tone. He sported a big grin as he ran off, but not nearly as big as the one I had.

Ever since then, it has been “My Tribe.” I don’t know if that moment was a blessing or a curse. I spent the 1980s dying a slow death of horrible teams and miserable play. I spent the 1990s watching my team rise to the peak, only to be crushed each time. The 2000s and beyond have been an uneven mix of play that boggles my mind. I thought we didn’t have a chance in some years, only to see us make a hell of a run. I also still have the 2007 World Series ticket that never was, as the Tribe blew a 3–1 lead in a best of 7 series to the Red Sox.

And yet what goes around comes around. The manager of that heartbreaker of a Sox team is now guiding My Tribe. A team that has Terry Francona running the show always has a chance at greatness. Even in this bizarrely loaded AL Central, stat geeks are picking the Tribe to win it all (or at least win most of whatever “it” is).

For me, the “it” I can’t wait for is the sound of Tom Hamilton telling me that “We’re underway at the corner of Carnegie and Ontario” for the next five months or so. I can’t wait to hear his call on the MLB App that gives me the Tribe’s radio call as I’m puttering around in the garage or driving the Mustang around town.

The start of the season lets us know that Hope Springs Eternal.

Even if your team is the Cleveland Indians.