I have a hard time explaining hatred of the Yankees. I don’t even hate any of their players, but I cannot like them because of the uniform. Joe Girardi is one of baseball’s class acts – he famously stopped to help the occupants of a crashed car the night the Yankees won the 2009 World Series – but I cannot root for his success.
That’s why I could not write a word about one of my best MLB experiences ever until the Astros eliminated the Yankees. Whatever happens in the World Series has no bearing on me. The Yankees will not host the Commissioner’s Trophy, nor will the Indians, thanks to the Yankees and the Indians’ suddenly playing to the level of a 100-loss team.
As the Indians took control of the AL Central amid an AL-record 22-game winning streak, I reached out to my good friend Ben about the possibility of attending a playoff game. During the Indians postseason runs in 2007 and 2016, he attended a game and knew how to acquire tickets. The Division Series was our best bet – tickets are still affordable and the wealthy fair-weather fan has not inflated prices. There’s also no guarantee of moving to a deeper round.
The Friday before the season ended, Ben broke the news – Game 2 tickets reached cost-prohibitive levels, while Game 1 was not excessive. He landed seats five rows from the field, just outside the visiting team’s dugout and in line-drive foul ball territory. Short digression: To stave off any politics, I think Chief Wahoo should go and should have gone a long time ago. I’d even be fine with a name change to the Spiders – it has a certain charm and befits the “Cleveland against the World” theme.
Ben, his father and I drove from Columbus to downtown Cleveland, the streets around Progressive Field mobbed with fans, the nearby bars at capacity. After buying a new Indians shirt and a rain poncho – it poured all day in Columbus – we arrived to a sunny evening in downtown Cleveland, perfect baseball weather. I suffered through freezing cold games in April and September in that ballpark.
This Game 1 would not come close, not on a day in the mid-60s combined with the body heat of 30,000-plus spectators. Before we entered the stadium, I discovered the depth of Progressive Field’s renovations. The brick we bought more than decades ago to line a plaza around the stadium’s Bob Feller statue was gone. All the bricks had been removed. Tom Verducci, whose Sports Illustrated column I’ve read faithfully for decades, stood less than 30 feet away.
Yankees fans peppered the stadium. It was all Indians gear. Several 20-something Yankees fans tried to talk trash to me while I waited in the concessions line. I just never responded because they were introducing the Indians roster and cheers burst with every name, even for former Indians like Yankees first-base coach Tony Pena, a round of boos for everyone else in pinstripes.
The air around the ballpark sizzled with the electricity of playoff baseball. Those who criticize lack of Indians fan support would have found no ammunition at the corner of Ontario and Carnegie. Only when we walked out of the stadium did I hear blatant badgering of Yankees fans. Considering how the series ended the following Wednesday at Progressive Field, they should have held their fire.
Trevor Bauer pitched the game of his life. He owned the Yankees. Late-season addition Jay Bruce provided most of the offense. The Indians defense deprived the Yankees of several potential hits, including a diving outfield catch by Jason Kipnis. I felt swept into the crowd. Cheering on every pitch that favored the Indians, standing on every pitch after the second strike, roaring on every third strike from the Indians pitchers and ever strike of the bat.
As we walked out with a half-inning to play, we knew what happened on every pitch. Cheers for strikes, gasps on ball and pandemonium on outs. Magic last exactly one game after this one, but it was hard to imagine a better setting for post-season baseball.
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