Recently I had an opportunity to go see the Houston Astros. Nolan Ryan was there. That was pretty cool. He is from my era. But that was about it. They sold wine. And carved meats. And stuff like that. Nothing like I remember. Because I used to go to the baseball games, many years ago.
There was nothing like watching a game in old Municipal Stadium. It was usually cold for a summer day. It didn’t matter where I sat because the winds off Lake Erie usually found me. As a member of a Little League team, coming to the game was our reward for playing our hearts out. We got to take the nearly fifty mile trek from our home town, north to Cleveland to see our Indians.
I loved our Tribe, even though they never seemed to win. Hardly ever. But despite that, I came to see them, because those players somehow mirrored our Midwestern industrial traits — hardworking, persevering, and despite the odds, never giving up.
When I walked into the stadium I was in awe. I paid no attention to the rickety old rafters or the hard bleacher seats. I was in heaven. I loved the mixed aromas of hot dogs, popcorn, and beer as it wafted throughout the stadium, eventually catching on with the wind and swirling throughout the arena.
I held my souvenir camera tightly. I had given most of my food money to buy it and waited for the perfect moment to immortalize Indians’ history. I enthusiastically clicked away with my cheap imitation, not knowing that the action shots I had captured would never materialize onto photo paper. I would always realize later that the money in which I used to buy my camera, would have been better spent on popcorn and hotdogs. Yet, every time that I went, I couldn’t resist, and ended up buying another one of those unreliable gadgets.
Usually by the end of the game, though my courageous Indians had put up a good fight, they fell short of victory. Sure, I was disappointed, but those were my Indians and I knew that next game they were going to start turning it around and make it into October. But somehow, during those chilly summer months, they never did. But I always told those Cleveland Indian pessimists in my family that next year would be different.
I usually left shivering and cold. It always seemed that it was unseasonably chilly days during Northern Ohio summers. The adults would stop on the way home and treat me and my teammates to a burger. They’d later deposit me safely at home with my family.
But not even the memories of the cold, the disappointment of the loss or the long ride back, could damper my excitement. Because I used to go to the baseball games. To see my Indians play.
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