The other day a much younger colleague and I were discussing something. We each sent the other an email expressing the same thought that crossed in the internet ether.
Her reaction was to say “jinx.” Mine was to say “you owe me a Coke,” which I’m sure baffled her. And as I thought about my reflexive response, I realized that “you owe me a Coke” even baffled me. That’s been my standard response to two people saying the same thing at the same time for as long as I can remember, but I have no idea why that’s the correct phrase to say at that moment, or even when I learned to say “you owe me a Coke” under those circumstances. I’m guessing it happened when I was a kid and some older and more worldly kid used that phrase and explained that it was what you do when that happens, and you need to say it before the other person does. I promptly incorporated that notion into my understanding of how the world works, as kids do, and there it remains. I’ve forgotten the incident, but definitely remember the phrase.
Internet searches don’t really shed any light on why anyone–me included–would say “you owe me a Coke” in this scenario. It’s recognized as one of the things you do when people say the same thing at the same time. (According to some websites, another thing that you can do is punch the other person in the arm, and now that I think of it, I seem to remember getting slugged in the arm a few times, too.) But the origins of “you owe me a Coke” seem to be lost in the mists of time. Who came up with that notion? Why would one person need to buy the other a soda, and why a Coke, specifically? And for that matter, has anyone ever really lived up to the obligation and actually bought the person who said it first a Coke?
It’s just destined to be one of life’s enduring mysteries, I suppose.
Normally I would set up the DVR function on our TV and record this year’s version of The Game. I’m not going to do so this year, however, because every time I have recorded the Buckeyes they’ve played horribly. On the other hand, when I haven’t tried to record them, they’ve played well. Given that track record, the proper course of conduct is clear.
The Tribe won the AL Central this year thanks to very good starting pitching, a superb bullpen, and a surprisingly robust offense. For a while, the Indians easily had the best starting pitching in baseball, but then injuries took their toll and Josh Tomlin and Trevor Bauer had their struggles. Now the team advances to the playoffs without Carlos Carrasco, with their most consistent starter, Corey Kluber, dealing with a nagging quadriceps strain, and with Danny Salazar available only in the bullpen. The Tribe will need to start Bauer in game one against the Boston Red Sox and hope that Kluber recuperates in time to start game two. Tomlin, who was removed from the starting rotation after getting repeatedly battered but who has pitched better since being reinstated as a starter after the injury to Carrasco, will start game three. If the Tribe hopes to prevail, it will need all three of those starters to pitch well.
But something’s holding you back. We Cleveland sports fans don’t like to admit it, but it’s fear, and also guilt. Fear, because we feel like we’ve seen this story before, and when we open our hearts to one of the Cleveland teams, our hearts always get broken. I don’t need to recount all of those instances to you, because they’re engraved on our very souls. The saying is “once bitten, twice shy,” and we’ve experienced that a hundred times over, to the point where we’re cowering in the corner when our teams do well or hardening our hearts by predicting failure in advance, thinking that if we do so and failure does come it won’t hurt quite so much. That doesn’t work, by the way, because even under the hard, calculated public veneer there always lurks a delicate blossom of hope, fresh and unguarded, ready to be crushed anew.
We know what happens when Sports Illustrated picks you. To be blunt, and somewhat vulgar, it means you’re irretrievably cursed and you’re going to suck. And that has exactly what has happened with the Tribe this year. They’ve blown chunks, and in particular they’ve been humiliated and beaten like a rug by their big purported rival the Detroit Tigers. Some rivalry! The Tigers beat the snot out of the Indians, and the Indians go home with covered with shame and embarrassment. Hell, the Indians have even been thumped by the Chicago White Sox. What could be more embarrassing than that?
And that was the decision point, right there. Watch, and hope? Or don’t watch, fearing that I would jinx the comeback? I mentally flipped a coin and decided to watch. Of course I did! The evil demons of sports knew I would. They knew I would invest my soul in hoping for a win, and the chances for tormenting me would be virtually endless. So once I sat in the chair, the Browns offense basically ground to a halt, and things started to go wrong. A missed assignment on a fake punt. A chance to down the ball on the 1 that was muffed. A last series that saw the Browns lose yards and hand the Steelers great field position. And then, inevitably, some completions and a game-winning field goal for the Steelers as time ran out, and a final, parting shot of a grinning Ben Roethlisberger.
When I woke up this morning and checked the final score, I was amazed — and ashamed — to learn that the Buckeyes had come roaring back to tie the game and send it to overtime before losing. Amazed, because the team that played while I was watching was a turnover machine that seemed to be playing without much punch or purpose. Ashamed, because I had given up when the players clearly didn’t. I felt like a quitter who let the team, and Buckeye Nation, down. It’s embarrassing.
Unfortunately, this year the Tigers have beaten the snot out of the Tribe. They’ve won 9 of 12, and in many of those games the outcome wasn’t close.
The Fates don’t appreciate such temerity. They become infuriated when puny mortals rise up and stick a thumb in their eye. They know when the time has come for a beat down and aren’t shy about relentlessly punishing those who don’t quite know their place. The only surprise is that, having been a sports fan for many decades now, I would need to relearn that lesson, painfully, yet again.
Webner House 