I’d say Game One of the Series qualifies! Tonight I’m wearing it proudly.
Our family has a bit of history with the World Series.
In 1920, the Cleveland Indians squared off against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the World Series. My grandfather, Gilbert Neal, then a mere lad of 22, told me decades later about taking the train from Akron to Cleveland to catch one of the Series games at old League Park. The Tribe won the Series — which in those days was a best of nine affair — to give Cleveland its first professional baseball championship. Grandpa’s favorite player, Stan Coveleski, won three of the games to help put the Indians over the top.
In 1976, Dad and I went down to Cincinnati to watch one of the World Series games between the Cincinnati Reds and the New York Yankees in old Riverfront Stadium. We weren’t really Reds fans, but when you get a chance to see a Series game, how can you say no? That was the right call, because it was an electric atmosphere and a game I’ll always remember. It was the apex of the Big Red Machine years, with Rose and Morgan, Bench and Perez, Foster and Geronimo. The Reds won that game, and they swept the Yankees to complete a year that causes some people to argue that the ’76 Reds were right there with the 1927 Yankees in the debate about which was the greatest baseball team of all time.
During the first half of my life, the Tribe was frequently terrible and at best mediocre, and never came close to the playoffs. But then their fortunes turned. The Tribe finally made it to the World Series again, in 1995 and 1997, but I didn’t go to any of the games. I was busy at work, the kids were little, and of course the ticket prices were exorbitant. And I guess I thought that, with the Indians turning the corner in the ’90s, we were likely to see another World Series in Cleveland in short order.
Of course, that didn’t happen — until this year. And when the Indians improbably beat the Boston Red Sox and the Toronto Blue Jays to make the Series, I told UJ and Russell that we had to go to a Series game up in Cleveland. How often do you have the chance to go to the World Series and support your team, watch a game with your son and brother, and experience that unique thrill of being at a championship event? This year, I was determined not to have the opportunity pass us by. So Friday I went on line, groaned at the outlandish scalpers’ prices being demanded for seats at the initial games in Cleveland, and then sucked it up and bought three seats together in one of the nosebleed sections of Progressive Field for game one of the World Series. I printed out the tickets yesterday.
So tomorrow night UJ, Russell and I will be in our seats at the ballpark in Cleveland — assuming that the tickets I paid through the nose for aren’t fraudulent, of course — to cheer like crazy for the Tribe. We’ll all get the chance to feel that World Series hoopla that Grandpa Neal enjoyed almost 100 years ago, and that Dad and I tasted 40 years ago. We’ll have an experience we’ll always remember, we’ll feel a stronger sense of connection to those long-departed family members, and we’ll add a bit to the family tradition with the World Series. I’d say that’s worth the money.
This morning finds us in the City of Champions — Cleveland. UJ, Russell and I came up yesterday afternoon to watch an early edition of October baseball as the Tribe beat the Detroit Tigers, 1-0, in a brilliant display of bullpen management by manager Terry Francona. It was a fantastic nail-biter that ended in triumph. Then we walked to a nearby pub to learn that, thanks to a well-timed rain delay, we could watch the entirety of Ohio State’s epic beat down of Oklahoma.
Today we’re going to swing by Octoberfest on Public Square, then it’s off to see if the Browns can resemble a professional football team against the Ravens. Can we complete the Cleveland-Buckeyes trifecta? Or will we learn, as Meat Loaf once sang, that two out of three ain’t bad?
I got up early this morning to walk down to the National Mall. It’s a favorite place for me, ever since Kish and I lived in Washington, D.C. 35 years ago. It’s also a favorite spot for joggers. Why not? It’s long, and flat, with lots of interesting things to occupy your attention as you trudge along. And dawn is a good time to visit, too– especially on a day where the high temperature is forecast to hit 96 degrees.
We have hardwood floors in the upstairs of our home, but it’s a “soft” hardwood — the kind that can get scratched and pockmarked without too much effort. Sure, that’s part of what gives a house that’s more than a century old some of its charm, but we’d like to hold the dents to a minimum.
This poses a quandary, because most of the products that are designed to avoid scuffs and scratches are a pain in the butt. The big problem is chairs, which are, by definition, designed to come into regular contact with those floors. We’ve tried two approaches to chair leg floor protection, and each has its frustrations.
One product provides a kind of saucer that you place under the chair legs, with a fuzzy surface that it supposed to come into contact with the floor and slide rather than scratch. The problem with this product is that if you lift the chair legs — to, say, scoot closer to a table or desk — they come off the saucers, and you’re constantly repositioning. The other option is sticky circles of various sizes, with adhesive on one side and that fuzzy, sliding surface on the other. The sticky side is supposed to adhere to the chair legs. The problem with that product occurs with chairs that are moved regularly. Eventually, the friction loosens the adhesive, or the adhesive dries out, and the circle falls off. We’re constantly replacing them.
Enter the chair sock. Kish spotted them at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gleeful Retiree, found them on the internet, and they work like a charm. They’re pulled up the chair leg like regular socks, and they slide on the floor like a charm. No more repositioning, and no more replacing! The chair socks are a godsend.
Now, if only they don’t get lost in the washer.
I’m sorry to report that our dog Kasey seems to be slowing down. That’s OK — it’s what happens to old dogs, and to old people, too. But it also makes us sad.
We first noticed it because Kasey is now having trouble jumping onto couches and chairs. In the old days, she could spring onto just about anything from a standing position. Then, it took a running start, but she made it. Now, she just puts her front paws on the seat and looks around beseechingly for a friendly face who might give her a lift up to one of her accustomed spots.
There are other signs as well. She limps from time to time, and she doesn’t seem to like long walks quite as much, and she doesn’t strain at the leash like she used to. Her head is turning white. Her eating habits have become more erratic. She’s more content to sit in the backyard in a cool, quiet spot. And she’s had a few of those unfortunate “accidents” around the house.
When you notice these kinds of things, the antenna go up and you begin looking for more indications of health problems. So far, though, we haven’t had to deal with any of those — aside from Kasey’s awful teeth, which seem to be more a product of bad care when she was little than advancing age.
We don’t know how old Kasey is, because she was a fully grown rescue dog when we first met her at the Erie County Humane Society. We guess that she’s 14 or so, but she’s a smaller dog, and they are supposed to live longer. We’re hoping that’s true.
In the meantime, Kish is watching Kasey like a hawk, keeping an eye out for gimpiness or apparent bowel problems, so we can get ol’ Kase to the vet at the first sign of trouble. Kish’s careful observation of Kasey for signs of aging is a bit unnerving, though. Now that I’ve passed 59, I’m squarely in the zone of scrutiny, too.
This weekend we had a blast up at Put-In-Bay, thanks to the generous hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Gleeful Retiree. Saturday night eight of us sat down to play a little euchre tournament, with team pairings that changed every five hands. It was a lot of fun.
Euchre is a great game for that setting, because each player is dealt only five cards. As a result, every hand is over quickly, so if you get a crappy hand — which unfortunately happens from time to time — it’s only a matter of a few minutes before you get a new one that hopefully isn’t filled with nines and tens. And there’s never a gap in table talk, either, because each hand offers opportunities to chat about the cards, the hand just played, the lay-down loner you didn’t get to call, and your run of ridiculous, inexplicable bad luck.
It’s the first time I’ve played euchre in a while, and it brought back a lot of memories. I come from a card family, and both Mom and Dad’s families were card families, too. For as long as I can remember, cards were a huge part of the Webner family dynamic. Kids progressed through the card game difficulty spectrum — starting with war, moving on to hearts, spades, gin rummy, and euchre, and finally getting up to cribbage and bridge. On family vacations, there always was a nightly euchre tournament where different combinations of uncles, cousins, and grandparents paired off for some friendly competition and bragging rights, and taunting was the order of the day. The bad jokes and gibes around the card tables at those euchre tournaments are some treasured memories and helped to make my childhood a little richer.
Some families are card families, some families aren’t. I’m glad I was from a card family. Richard and Russell are good card players, and we’ve had some good times playing cards together. I’m happy they’re carrying on the family tradition.