For three joyous seconds last November, I believed the Cleveland Indians were World Series champions.
It was Game 7, bottom of the ninth, the Indians and Cubs tied 6-6. Chicago native and Indians second baseman Jason Kipnis drilled a 1-1 pitch toward the right field corner. I leapt from the living room floor in unison with the thousands of people in the stands. And . . . foul ball. In hindsight it wasn’t even close to fair. But for that brief moment, my heart was ready to burst, my cup ready to runneth over.
And then a Series that was all about fate and destiny and ending misery had one final cruel twist. As the ninth inning ended with the game still tied, a steady rain fell on Progressive Field (forever the “Jake” to some of us) and the umpires called a rain delay. It was hard to see the opening of the heavens as anything but a message from God. The Series had pitted the darling, lovable Cubs against the feisty, scrappy Indians. A team that hadn’t won in 108 years against a team that hadn’t won in 68 years. The curse of the billy goat vs. the curse of Rocky Colavito. It was as if God had been sitting upstairs, twiddling His thumbs, mulling His options. Then He decided in favor of the Cubs, pulled a lever, and opened the heavens.
Before the rain delay Cleveland had all the momentum, having come back from a 6-3 deficit. Predictably (for Cleveland fans, misery is always the prediction), the Cubs emerged from the clubhouse after the rain, scored two runs in the top of the 10th and celebrated a historic championship. The wrong team celebrated on the field, in front of too many of the wrong fans.
Oh, Cleveland.
If God is a baseball fan—and there are plenty of reasons to think that’s the case—then He’s had it in for Cleveland for the last quarter-century. That’s about when Cleveland went from being the laughingstock of Major League Baseball to a great franchise always meeting with tragedy in the postseason. For those of you who’ve blotted the pain from your memory:
* 1994: The season is cut short by a labor strike with the Indians in their first pennant race in eons.
* 1995: The Indians finish with the best record in baseball, managing to win 100 games despite the lingering strike that lopped 18 games off the spring schedule. They lose the World Series to Atlanta in six.
* 1997: The real cruelty begins. The Indians make it to the World Series again, facing the Florida Marlins, an expansion team born in 1993 (an insult in itself). In Game 7, bottom of the ninth, with Cleveland leading 2-1 and the Indians’ clubhouse lined with plastic sheeting for the champagne celebration, closer Jose Mesa allows the game-tying run. Predictably, the Marlins win in the 11th inning.
*2016: See above.
Yet here it is October again and here are the Indians, in the playoffs again. As with last year, the club got off to a so-so start and then propelled themselves into the playoffs with a huge winning streak. In 2016, Cleveland won 14 in a row. This year—well, unless you’ve (understandably) been living under a rock, you’d know the Indians ended the regular season with perhaps the most dominant stretch of baseball in the game’s history: 22 straight wins and a 33-3 record to end the season. During The Streak, they hit more home runs (41) than their opponents scored runs (37). The pitchers had a collective ERA of 1.58 and registered 200 strikeouts against 37 walks.
One of two things can happen from here: The Indians can build on this success and deliver a resounding victory in the World Series. Or they can deliver what could be the most soul-crushing loss yet. Hopes have never been higher. But here’s the problem: If Cleveland doesn’t win the World Series this year, plenty of people will say “But that winning streak is a great consolation prize! Isn’t that enough?” No.
Enough with “enough.”
We Cleveland fans are tired of “just being happy to be here.” That was fine—and true!—in 1995. It was even tolerable last year, when the Tribe limped into the postseason without two starting pitchers (Carlos Carrasco and Danny Salazar), their starting catcher (Yan Gomes), and their oft-injured, but talented, left-fielder (Michael Brantley).
Again I say, enough with enough.
We’ve had more patience than Job. It is time for the Cleveland Indians to win the World Series. The pieces are in place: a world-class manager in Tito Francona (who, by the way, out-managed Joe Maddon last year), a Cy Young candidate in ace Corey Kluber, an MVP candidate in Jose Ramirez, one of the game’s most enigmatic shortstops in Francisco Lindor.
It is not time for the pompous Yankees, or the young Red Sox, and certainly not for the upstart Astros. The Dodgers can wait, as can the Cubs (isn’t one World Series enough?), and the Nationals, who have been in Washington for five minutes—and let’s be honest, that city doesn’t deserve a World Series any more than “Florida” did in ’97.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Series come, thy will be done, at the Jake as it is in heaven.
