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	Pinstriped Transgression May Finally Be Forgiven Published in the New York Times (Fall 1997) At last. For the first time in baseball history, my Indians are facing the dreaded New York Yankees in the post-season. Maybe if I come clean and admit my transgression nearly 50 years ago, the baseball gods will finally lift their hex on my hometown team. You see, I once wore a Yankee uniform, but I can explain.... Like any self-respecting Indians fan of my day, I grew up with a healthy fear and loathing of the Bronx Bombers. After all, I came from a decent family that taught me Feller, Boudreau, and Keltner were good; DiMaggio, Berra, and Raschi were bad. Imagine my horror, then, when I opened a gift from an unwitting relative and gaped at the baseball uniform inside. It had pinstripes, for cryin' out loud! Now what? In those years before Little League, I longed each summer for a fresh white uniform I could emblazon with the Indians' name, but the purist in me just wouldn't permit "Indians" on Yankee pinstripes. Sadly, I handed my mother seven letters, Y-A-N-K-E-E-S, to press onto my uniform, along with the number 10. At least if I had to go through the season as a Yankee, I might as well be Phil Rizzuto. Just 5 feet 6, Rizzuto was small like me and embodied one of the first grown-up words I had learned: "agile." A few times that summer I did put on the pinstripes and slip stealthily outside to toss myself pop-ups or fire a tennis ball against the garage to field grounders. I was quick and agile with the number 10 on my sleeve — an agile traitor. One day a neighbor spotted me in my clandestine play and raised a friendly eyebrow. "Ahh. Rizzuto, huh?" I smiled back grimly. Cursing the uniform, I wished it would shrink into oblivion in the next wash. Actually, my relationship with the Yankees didn't begin badly. They were our opponents when my parents and grandparents took me to my first Indians game in 1949. As we climbed the steep ramps to the upper deck, my excitement mounted, reaching a crescendo when I peered down for my first view of the magnificent, manicured field. The Indians dropped two of three to the Yankees that series, as they often did, but they won the contest we saw, 5-3. Former Yankee Joe Gordon even gave the victory an exclamation point, cracking a Cleveland homerun into the left field seats. The Indians won 89 games that 1949 season, but the powerful Yankees won 97, claiming the pennant and defeating the Dodgers in the first of their record five consecutive World Series championships. The Indians of those years — with Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, and Mike Garcia joining Bob Feller — had one of the most formidable pitching staffs in baseball history. But that just made us the best team of all the mortals. The baseball gods had hardly diluted the preternatural powers of Ruth and Gehrig in the current generation of Yankees. The disheartening second-place finishes year after year might have dampened my baseball infatuation, were it not for two strong influences: my Grandpa Joe's beguiling stories of old-time greats like Nap Lajoie and Tris Speaker, and the emergence of Indians star Al Rosen. The weekend I spent with my grandparents at Cedar Point, on Lake Erie, was when my fascination with the old-time players took hold. As Grandpa and I strolled along the beach, he told me about the Indians' first World Series, a triumph over the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1920. That was the dramatic series of Elmer Smith's first grand slam homer in series history, the remarkable unassisted triple play by Bill Wambsganss, and the stardom of Tribe pitcher Stanley Coveleski, winner of three games. "Coveleski," Grandpa said with reverence, "had ice water in his veins." And to make sure I understood the cool dispatch of a pitcher long ago, Grandpa scrunched up his shoulders and shivered in the midday sun. Just as my grandfather had cherished the stars of his day, I discovered a hero of my own. Al Rosen won the third base assignment on the 1950 Indians, led the league with 37 home runs, and established himself as the idol of my youth. How could it be anyone else? Suddenly, a handsome, rugged number 7 was charging bunts, fielding hot smashes off his chest, and rounding out a mighty middle of the lineup with Larry Doby and Luke Easter. The sportswriters said Rosen's nose had been broken 13 times — 11 as an amateur boxer — and that his right hand was so built up it was actually larger than his left. At last we had a mythical character to rival the ones who wore pinstripes. When I realized that Rosen was having his uniform sleeves shortened, I began rolling up the sleeves of every shirt I wore summer and winter, crumpling my mother's ironing for years. I didn't allow a sleeve to hang at its full length until I was about I5 and Rosen was gone from the diamond. In 1953 my hero nearly captured a rare triple crown with 43 homers, 145 runs batted in, and a .336 batting average, but again the Indians' record of 92-62 was second best. The Yankees won 99 games and defeated the Dodgers in the World Series, 4 games to 2. The 1954 season was magical. Tribe second baseman Bobby Avila led the league in hitting, Doby was tops in homers and RBIs, and Rosen produced solid numbers while playing part of the summer with a broken finger. On the mound, the Big Three of Lemon, Wynn, and Garcia won 65 games, as Feller, now in his 16th year, went 13-3. The Yankees, with newfound stars like Mickey Mantle, Bill Skowron, and Whitey Ford, split the season series with the Tribe, but the Indians mauled the other six teams in the league. Dramatic victories became commonplace, and I devoured every inning of them in the newspaper, on TV, and on the radio in my bedroom when a game went late into the night. By season's end, the Indians had amassed 111 victories, establishing an American League record. It appeared that the New York Giants, winners of 97 games in the National League, would be showing up for the World Series merely as a formality. What actually happened, as any fan knows, was one of the most stunning upsets in sports history. The Giants dispensed with the Indians in four straight games, smashing our short-lived pride. What was it about these New York teams? Now that the baseball gods had restored the game to its natural order, the Indians hovered around first place most of the 1955 season, but fell back in September. The Yankees returned to their rightful spot at the head of the league. In the decades that followed, the Yankees could hardly be considered our nemesis, because every team had our number. From 1960 through 1993, awful Indians teams became one more painful Cleveland joke. Tribe teams of that era often found a way to post some wins in April and May — another sadistic move by the mocking baseball gods — and then fell into the annual June swoon, losing games at an astounding clip the rest of the summer. Meanwhile, we watched former Indians like Roger Maris, Chris Chambliss, and Graig Nettles help the Yanks on their relentless marches to the World Series. In 1994, an Indians team that had been inching forward since an ignominious 105 losses in 1991 suddenly jelled in its new ballpark, Jacobs Field. We might have thought some new gods were in charge, except for the August 12 strike that ended our first playoff-bound season in four decades, and our confounding 0-9 record against one team. Need I mention which one? The next year, Cleveland fans spent the summer in one long, euphoric dream. The Tribe placed six players in the All-Star Game, pulled off countless come-from-behind wins, and led the Major Leagues with a majestic 100-44 record. Still, the key to our first World Series in 41 years may have been the Seattle Mariners' miraculous three straight playoff victories over the Yankees, eliminating a daunting hurdle from our path to the Fall Classic. Losing to the Atlanta Braves in six games seemed a tolerable ending to the extraordinary '95 season. After all, the Braves had established themselves as the team of the '90s, and we would surely be back for a rematch in '96.... Not exactly. Derailed by the Orioles in the first round of the playoffs, the Tribe and its fans watched the season end even more maddeningly when our old nemesis, the Yankees, captured the crown. This year, we can send the Yankees packing ourselves — provided that the ghosts of 1950s Indians-killers like Gene Woodling and Eddie Lopat have finally departed the Yankee dugout. Indians fans who don't believe in jinxes are poring over the stats and pointing out why the Tribe really can overcome the Yanks this week. As for me, I'm just hoping the baseball gods will decide, almost 50 years since my one disloyal act, that penance should give way to pennants.

  
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