What I’m saying is that being a lifelong Indians fan transcends any of the whining from Wrigley Field or, once upon a time, Red Sox Nation. Pussies. For most of my life, the Indians had neither stars nor hope—only agony. With apologies to Bernard Malamud, to be a Cleveland fan is to suffer, and to suffer is to be a Cleveland fan.
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From an unforgettable and beautifully crafted piece by Esquire writer and native Clevelander, Scott Raab. The story is an excerpt from “Top of the Order: 25 Writers Pick Their Favorite Baseball Player of All Time,” and recounts an episode in 1970 in which Raab, his brother, and a friend, then in their late teens, schemed to publicly humiliate Indians first baseman Tony Horton on “Banner Day” at Cleveland Municipal Stadium.
If I write any more, it will detract from the experience of reading the piece, so I won’t.
