BASEBALL PLAYOFFS : A Late Leap Onto the Bandwagon

Each spring since 1982, I wrote a column, predicting that the Cleveland Indians would win the pennant.

The club’s P.R. department would frame a copy and nail it on a wall in the old stadium. And this would always bring me mail from happy Clevelanders, or Clevelandians, or Clevalenos, or whatever they call themselves there.

But I felt like a jinx.

Cleveland never won anything, except in movies with Charlie Sheen.

Only now, there the Indians are, fighting for the pennant. They are on their way to Seattle, the town where baseball fans sing: “Buy me some peanuts and Starbuck’s double latte with cinnamon.”

And now all I can do is sit back, viewing the “Tribe” on TV, with a shot at a World Series between the Indians and Braves that will no doubt result in a Million Native American March on Washington, D.C., and wonder if this was the year that I finally won the pennant for Cleveland with my column.

By not writing one.

I forgot. I just plain damn dumb plumb forgot.

In February, I put it off, unsure whether the Cleveland Indians would be made up of Albert Belle, Dennis Martinez and Orel Hershiser or 25 strike-breaking taxi drivers, insurance salesmen and disgruntled postal workers.

In March, I got distracted by UCLA’s basketball team winning the national championship, which I also should have predicted, but, duh, didn’t.

By April, I was too busy worrying whether any Los Angeles professional football would ever again be played, or whether any Los Angeles professional hockey player would ever again be paid.

Then it got too late.

Choosing Cleveland after that wouldn’t have been kosher, because by then Cleveland was already leading everyone else in its division by around, oh, a couple of thousand games.

Granted, I had no idea which division Cleveland was in by that point, vaguely recollecting that it was either the American League East, the American League Central or the NCAA Southeast Regional. What can I tell you? We live in a world where Baltimore plays in the Canadian Football League.

Anyhow, I’m picking Cleveland to win.

I suppose you think that October is a little late, but you know the old saying: Better late than Atlanta. And besides, if I don’t do this now, before it is too late, it will be on my conscience all winter. I’ll keep thinking about it, right up to the Super Bowl between the Browns and the Rams.

I can’t wait to see a Cleveland celebration. That is a great place to throw a party. Cleveland is a city known for music, as evidenced by the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, as well as for comedy, as evidenced by the Cavalier basketball team’s uniforms.

Oh, can’t you see those Cleveland baseball players now, pouring champagne over their heads and being interviewed on TV?

Eddie Murray: “No comment!”

Albert Belle: “No comment!”

Kenny Lofton: “I agree with Eddie and Albert!”

I suppose this season is proof that if you live long enough, you can see anything. The toughest tickets to buy in baseball are in Cleveland and Seattle, two parks that once were slightly less empty than Yellowstone. In the meantime, Los Angeles and Cincinnati can’t sell out.

Next thing you’ll tell me, the best team in hockey will be New Jersey.

Anyhow, about Cleveland:

While it wouldn’t be the end of the world for Seattle to win the World Series--no, wait; maybe it would--I think most of us are agreed that Cleveland has been waiting longer, so everybody in Seattle should just run on home and watch “Frasier” now.

In Cleveland, they had Herb Score.

In Seattle, they think Herb Score is some sort of marijuana deal.

In Cleveland, they had Early Wynn.

In Seattle, they think Early Wynn is some sort of 10-run rule, where the umpires call off the game.

In Cleveland, they had Rapid Robert Feller.

In Seattle, they think Rapid Robert is some sort of transit system.

In Cleveland, they had Lou Boudreau.

In Seattle, they think Boudreau is that police inspector played by Peter Sellers.

They don’t have any baseball tradition in Seattle. People there are still learning the game. They call radio shows and ask: “Why don’t they pitch Randy Johnson every day?” They call their friends on the phone and ask: “How many points did the Mariners win by?”

Baseball is as foreign to Seattle residents as cricket. Seattle people think Rocky Colavito is a pasta. They wouldn’t know DiMaggio and Aparicio from espresso and cappuccino. Until, oh, around three weeks ago, 97% of the Seattle population thought a sacrifice fly was something used to catch trout.

Cleveland knows baseball.

People there have heard of the Braves. Cleveland people understand “Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.” Whereas Seattle people only understand the rain part.