The Indians, Going into Game 7
November 2nd, 2016
I have a memory to share. Growing up, the first team I watched regularly, the first group of players I got attached to was the late ‘90s Cleveland Indians. When they lost 4-0 to the Braves, I was still a little too young to really remember the details of the series, but the 1997 series against the Marlins - I remember that one. I was almost nine, and though my knowledge of the game was less than what I can claim now, I knew the rules, remember being excited, remember being nervous, remember being sad, remember loving my city and that I could claim to be from the same place that these players represented. All these years later, and I can still rattle off at least ten guys that were on the squad.
Since then my love of baseball has only grown. It’s grown in an era when the sport has seen steroid scandals and declining offenses, when the Indians record for sold-out games gave way to record low attendance streaks, when bitter baseball old-timers rioted over the use of statistics and logic, when people seem less and less inclined to pay attention to anything for more than twenty minutes, let alone a contemplative game that takes three hours to play. My baseball fandom grew no matter what disappointment the 2000s wrought, no matter what Chris Perez said, no matter how many times we threw Nick Hagadone on the mound to ruin hopes and dreams. And now I can claim to have seen at least a hundred games in the regular 2016 season, every inning of the postseason. I was pouring drinks behind the bar and froze when Tyler Naquin hit his walk-off inside-the-parker. I tracked the progress of Rajai Davis hitting through the cycle from a boat in Lake Erie. I watched all nineteen innings of the Toronto game that capped a franchise record winning streak. I’ve laughed as Kipnis pretended like Rougned Odor was going to punch him in the face, as Lindor mock-dove for a ball that got stuck in the catwalks of Tropicana Field. I’ve smiled as my brother, Graham, has been noticeably disappointed when Carlos Santana delivered a two-run double instead of adding a tally to his insane walk totals. I’ve cringed watching Andrew Miller’s wickedness, sidearm stuff that is, at times, genuinely unhittable. I know there’s a party at Napoli’s; it’s ongoing. And I finally watched enough of Corey Kluber’s dominant pitching to see him register an emotion. I’m primed to watch a historic game 7.
You see, the last game 7 I was a little boy, a week away from turning nine years old. It was late. The game went to eleven innings. I was tired. But more than that, I was scared. I felt a nervousness I’ve come to know very well as a fan of Cleveland sports, and I was feeling it for the first time. So I decided it was too hard to watch my favorite sports team; I decided to go to bed. I’ve felt bad that I didn’t watch ever since.
Now it’s nineteen years later, and I’ve found another Indians team that I love as much as I loved that one. And a game 7, on my twenty-eighth birthday. I’ve grown up. The thing that’s changed: I’m not going to bed. Please forgive the nine-year-old kid that was too scared to keep watching as his favorite team ran out of steam a baby-step from the finish line. My fandom is the same, but I’ve learned to love my sports teams the way that parents love watching their kids strive to achieve their goals. I’ll be sad if the Indians don’t win today, but not disappointed. For I need not the title to love the team, but to know that I watched the best they had to offer. The Tribe was supposed to lose the division series against Boston, injured as they are. They didn’t. They didn’t lose against Toronto’s longball offense either. I see a team that keeps fighting. I see a team still one win away from winning it all, still playing baseball on the last day of the season. “No one cares unless you win the last game of the season.” I care, Billy. Either way. And I’ll be watching.
This is our home.
Go Tribe!