a simple man

Baseball is replete with turning points. Change has always been part of the game. Today my favorite baseball team announced a change. They are rebranding and retiring a name that has been a part of their history for well over 100 years. But to understand why they are changing their name requires looking back at some parts of their history that have been overlooked and forgotten. To build a better future means understanding, acknowledging, and repairing the vestiges of a troubled past.

In America’s mid-west, there lies a city on the shores of Lake Erie called Cleveland. There men have played baseball since at least 1857 as amateurs. Eventually semi-pro and professional teams were established to compete for championships and glory.

Within the white lines of baseball’s green and brown diamond, men have struggled to win with clubs and gloves and a little red and white ball. The game has changed a lot in that time, both in the way it has been played, and with the men who have played it. Some have endured horrible, racially motivated aggression just to compete in a sport they love.

Larry Doby comes to mind as baseball’s second African American player, signed by Cleveland’s baseball team in 1947, just three months after Jackie Robinson signed with the Brooklyn Dodgers. It wasn’t until 1975 that Cleveland signed Frank Robinson, who became the first African American manager of a major league team. All three men suffered from a racism and it’s effects. But they weren’t the first to endure vitriol because of race.

Fifty years before them, a little know player named Louis Sockalexis played for a dismal little team known as the Spiders in 1897. Two years later, a pejorative nickname for that team arose: the Indians. This was to deride the lackluster player Sockalexis who was part of the Penobscot Nation of Maine. Sockalexis wasn’t a consistently great player, but he didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of hatred because of his race. The team then known as the Indians disbanded after the 1899 season, and it wasn’t until 1914 that the epithetic name was re-introduced.

Here I confront my own inherent racism and white blindness. I thought that Cleveland’s first Native American player was Nap Lajoie, a man who carried the team and lent it a name for twelve years. Lajoie was in fact of French decent, and his name was short for Napoleon. I had never heard the name Louis Sockalexis until today when I was doing research. I had always heard and believed that Cleveland adopted the name “Indians” out of respect for their first Native American player. Such a rosy picture of Cleveland’s past could not be true in light of how America in general has treated non-white people. Sadly, according to what I found, Sockalexis had a very rough time as a baseball player, something that would be repeated for Larry Doby, and Frank Robinson after him. For many years players in Cleveland endured hatred because of their race.

Even in that dark, racial turmoil, there is a glimpse of a brighter future to be seen. The Cleveland baseball team was forward thinking enough in 1897, and 1947, and 1975 to hire each of their non-white players, and manager, despite public opinion and public animosity to the contrary. The executives and owners of each of those teams at least put baseball first and damned the consequences to sign men who weren’t going to be popular with their fan base.

A thing can be a part of your history, and a part of your fondest memories, and even cherished, and still need to be set aside to build something better. I am not trying to say that all Cleveland baseball fans are racist. I am not trying to say that they intentionally denigrated Native Americans by embracing the Indians name or the Chief Wahoo logo. But if even one person was hurt by that name, or caricature, then is it not worth setting aside for their peace and inclusion? Surely Louis Sockalexis had a terrible time as a player on the Cleveland Spiders, and many have not enjoyed their culture being used as a sports mascot. So is it not better to set aside history, not to destroy what is loved, but to build a better future that will endure?

I understand the legacy of history. I grew up a Cleveland baseball fan because my mother grew up a Cleveland baseball fan because her father grew up a Cleveland baseball fan. I remember stories she told of being taken to games with my grandfather. I haven’t been dissuaded from my love of the Cleveland team despite them losing the World Series in 1995, 1997, and 2016. I will always love the Cleveland baseball team until the day I die. But I haven’t always loved their name.

I did love the Cleveland Indians name and logo as a child. But as I grew older, and learned about racism, and how the name “Indians” was pejorative at best and racist at worst, I had trouble even saying the name to others. I used to proudly display a Confederate flag as a part of my southern heritage, but once I learned how that hurt my African American friends, and that the Confederate flag is a symbol of racism, I could no longer even own that flag. As that symbol must be set aside, and never again raised, so too the Indians name must be laid to rest.

And that is what Cleveland has done. They are retiring their baseball team’s name, their identity, their brand in an effort to do better. They are acknowledging the hurt, the racism, and the sadness that their legacy has perpetuated and they are making strides to go forward into an inclusive future. Starting in 2022, the Cleveland Guardians will take the field.

Names change. The Cleveland teams were once the Blues, the Naps, the Spiders, the Lake Shores. Now they are the Guardians. Guardians of Cleveland as a city for all to live and love baseball as racial equals. Guardians of a better tomorrow. The name change isn’t popular. When Cleveland retired the Chief Wahoo logo in 2019, many of their fans were very unhappy. Today many of those same fans are upset again. But that should, and will, pass. A name may seem to be just a name, but it can also be so much more. It can be pejorative, demeaning, even racist. Or it can be uplifting, a symbol of strength, and a call to something greater than each of us. That is what the Guardians’ name should mean. That is what it represents for me. It is a reminder to me to put aside, again, my prejudices and preconceptions and to reach for something better.

I’m not perfect. But I hope that I can be better today than I was yesterday. And as I cheer for the Cleveland Guardians in 2022 and beyond, may I never forget the Cleveland Indians and Louis Sockalexis, Larry Doby, and Frank Robinson, and all their other non-white players who have struggled to enjoy what I, a white man, enjoy: a life free from hatred, violence, and racism. I’ve never known the struggles they faced, and I hope with all my being for, and strive to work towards, a future in which each child born will never know those struggles, both in baseball and in Cleveland, and in the world. I hope to be a Guardian of a free future for all.

Go Cleveland! Go Guardians!

This past week, on July 13th, Major League Baseball held the 91st playing of the All Star Game. Set against the Rocky Mountains of Denver, Colorado, the game itself entertained and showcased Shohei Ohtani, a Japanese “two-way” player (two way referring to his dual roles as pitcher and designated hitter). Ohtani represented the Los Angeles Angels of the American League, but you’d be forgiven for missing that, a fact we will return to shortly for more discussion.

The night before, I thoroughly enjoyed the Home Run Derby, an exhibition of some of the game’s most powerful hitters, and while Ohtani participated and made the first round very exciting, he did not win. It always amazes me each year that the Derby manages to be as entertaining as it is. I convince myself that players hitting home run after home run on pitches basically lobbed into the strike zone won’t be fun to watch, but each year I prove myself wrong by becoming absorbed in the spectacle.

I always enjoy the All Star break in the middle of the baseball season, and look forward to seeing the year’s best players from each league competing together for the pride of the win and the fun of the game. I can remember past All Star Games and Home Run Derbies and the great players that assembled to reward the fans with some incredible moments. It is something special to see them all lined up on the foul lines, announced one by one, and knowing that some will be in the Hall of Fame and wondering which others might be inducted into Cooperstown in the future.

One aspect in particular that I always enjoyed each year was seeing the uniforms of each team displayed against each other. I really love the visual of a player from the Boston Red Sox playing with a player from the New York Yankees and the Baltimore Orioles. Or a New York Mets’ player with a Milwaukee Brewers’ player. I love to see the colors, the logos, and the styles all mixed onto two teams.

This year, however, fans of the game were robbed of that particular visual. Major League Baseball decided to design and have the players wear two uniforms, a home and an away jersey, and have them be worn during the All Star Game. In previous years, jerseys have been designed and worn, but only during All Star batting practice, the Home Run Derby, or other events. During the game itself, the players wore the uniforms of the teams they represented.

Which brings us back to Shohei Ohtani. Instead of the red Angels’ uniform he usually wears, he wore a dark blue uniform with large red letters on the chest and a blue cap. And so did every other player for the American League. The National League uniforms were white, but with the same large letters across the chest. The only concession to the different teams was the fact that each team had their own logo superimposed on three letters that abbreviated their city of origin. Really, the jerseys were hideous. They were badly colored, oddly designed, and not really aesthetically pleasing at all.

Really, the look of the jerseys was secondary. Except for knowing that Ohtani was from the Angels already, I couldn’t have picked out what team he came from based on sight alone. The three letters for the city were totally obscured by the logo, which itself was hard to distinguish, but even with that difficulty, it was the same jersey that Jose Ramirez of the Cleveland Indians wore, and it was the same jersey that Vladimir Guerrero of the Toronto Blue Jays wore. It was even worse as later in the game less familiar players were substituted for their chance to shine. Only they didn’t, because they blended into every other player on their respective teams. It was very frustrating, distracting, and disappointing. That night they showed up in ugly blue or all white. No variation. No distinction. No celebration of diversity.

Maybe that is what bothers me the most, here a week later as I am writing this: the lack of diversity being celebrated. Baseball is America’s game, some say, and it should represent America. People sometimes say that America is a melting pot, where everyone is the same and equal. Sadly the people who live here are not treated equally, but beyond that, America is not a melting pot, a sludge of a single color. It is a cacophony of differences and hues. Just like baseball usually is during the All Star Game: Cincinnati red next to Oakland green next to Royal blue next to Pittsburg black next to San Fransisco orange next to Arizona whatever-color-they-are-this-week.

It wasn’t just that the uniforms were unappealing to me. It was that they were all uniform. And they shouldn’t have been. I truly hope that Major League Baseball doesn’t repeat that mistake next year and into the future. A quick skimming of social media showed that I wasn’t alone in my assessment of the game and its displays. In 2022, the All Star Game will be held at Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, and while I truly hope that those All Star jerseys are much better designed, I hope too that I don’t see them during the game. I want to see that Dodger blue script on a white field with a red number for the home town Dodger players. It’s an iconic look and should proudly be displayed, alongside every other of the twenty-nine teams’ uniforms that are currently a part of Major League Baseball.

After all, its all part of the pageantry of baseball: the flash of home runs being launched into a summer night, the snap of a baseball into leather, and the excitement of the game’s best competing against the game’s best. It is what makes the Midsummer Classic a, well, a classic game out at the old ballpark. And that is what I want to see each year.

I’m watching the Oakland Athletics currently running the table on the Boston Red Sox from Fenway Park. It is 4-1 in the bottom of the sixth. I came into the game in the fifth inning, and after a little bases-loaded merriment, Boston failed to score. A lead-off home run in the top of the sixth led to Oakland’s fourth run.

Baseball is in full swing for the 2021 season after a shortened season last year due to (what else?) Covid-19. I didn’t watch much of the truncated 2020 season. Depression, worries about the world, and restlessness kept me from enjoying my favorite sport.

This year, having survived my own bout with the coronavirus, I feel newly alive, and with that my passion for the best game on the planet reignited. My team hails from Cleveland. I watch them every day that I can, usually catching at least half the game. Then I like to drop in on any game or interesting matchup still in progress. Today I watched Cleveland beat the Chicago Cubs 2-1 in the bottom of the tenth; then I caught part of the San Diego Padres at the Colorado Rockies; and now the A’s and the Red Sox. It’s been a good day of baseball.

Baseball, I argue, is the most exciting, most nerve-wracking, most enjoyable sport to watch for those of us not blessed to play it. But I’ve had a bit of a revelation about the nature of the game. This year I have watched two separate no-hitters. One was almost a “perfect” game, but a hit batsman reduced that to a mere no-hit bid. Regardless, the game was stellar from the pitcher’s mound and the defense behind it. Yet that game wasn’t that enjoyable. It was certainly exciting and nerve-wracking, especially as I followed every pitch, every swing of the bat, every spinning hop on the infield as the ball gyrated toward a defender ready to send it hurtling toward first base and (hopefully) another out. But enjoyable? Not really.

I would rather see a game with a mounting tally of hits, guys with infield dirt smeared over their uniform pants and jerseys, and plenty of crooked numbers on the score columns of each inning. Looking back on all the baseball I’ve watched, the games which made me laugh out loud in pure joy were the ones in which the ball was being smacked all over the ballpark, and I don’t mean home runs, either. Sure, those are majestic. Seeing that white and red-stitched orb being absolutely crushed into the summer evening to land in the upper deck is exciting. However, I again argue it isn’t really that enjoyable, for all that it does launch a crowd to its feet to roar for their mighty hitter. It is possible, after all, to win a game 1-0 behind a stellar pitching performance and with exactly one hit, a home run. That kind of excitement lasts long enough for the home run hitter to touch all the bases, but once he returns to the dugout, what do you cheer for?

Give me a game in which there are stolen bases, sacrifice bunts, shots in the gap, doubles, and balls slapped down the line from both teams. Sure, the pitchers’ stats will take a serious blow, ERAs will be sky high, like the fly balls that ricochet off the wall. But when a baseball bounces around the outfield corners like a recalcitrant youngster avoiding the recess bell, all the while a runner tears around the bases throwing up dirt like a thoroughbred at Churchill downs – that’s enjoyable baseball. When a guy dives headfirst, fingers outstretched, desperate to catch a corner of home plate so that his team can edge ahead of their opponent – that’s enjoyable baseball. Catchers like squat powerhouses muscling balls into the outfield to keep the offensive line moving or like armored tanks firing lethal projectiles toward second base hoping to gun down speeding devils intent on thievery? That’s enjoyable baseball! That kind of baseball will make the crowd chant, cheer, and roar their throats raw. Nine innings of that makes the fans positively euphoric.

A perfect game is like a well executed masterpiece of writing perused while sipping a fine Chardonnay. (I guess. I don’t drink Chardonnay.) But a 8-7 affair with plenty of running, hitting, and wild plays? That’s like a dime-store adventure novel that you can’t wait to read again as soon as you’ve finished it. You wear out the pages on those books just as the runners wear out the base paths trying to score home. One may be an exemplar, but one is arguably more enjoyable.

All my growing up days, there was exactly one scenario I dreamed of: two strikes, two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. What happens next? A grand slam to walk off with the win. But how do you get there? One, by being down by three runs, and two, by loading the bases. That means plenty of hits and runs, not 27 outs, one after the other. I never once dreamed of throwing the final strike of a perfect game, that’s for sure!

So maybe you do drink wine and enjoy Crime and Punishment or whatever Russian masterpiece is collecting dust on a bookshelf. Me? Give me the Hobbit one more time with a bunch of filthy dwarves hunting for dragon gold. Give me a hit and run with one out followed by a double in the gap. You can keep your perfect game. It’ll be one for the history books, but I just might be having more fun at the ole ballpark.

(Boston lost, by the way. Just couldn’t string together enough hits. Now I’m headed to DC. The Washington Nationals are trying to beat the Philadelphia Phillies in extra innings.)