Wild Indians

It's my Pop's birthday. He'd be 78 today.

I spent the evening watching the Tribe in the Division Series and thinking about how my dad loved the Indians with this whole heart until they disappointed him one too many times and he just had to give up on them. He didn't have a choice; he had nothing left to give them.

I was hoping so much that they'd win tonight; on his birthday.

But the bastards lost, and so now we play again tomorrow.

I wish you were here, Pop. I wish you and me and D could watch it together; Mama would make the snacks and we'd have the sports sections from the Plain Dealer and the Vindicator, and we'd talk about who was hot and who is overpaid and over-rated. You'd tell us stories about when you used to take a bus to Cleveland Stadium on sunny Sundays in the 50's to watch a double-header. And about the time that you scored tix from Caterpillar and sat right behind the dugout; you were so close you could have called balls and strikes. And how the Indians coming off the field and into the dugout were looking you right in the eye.

You made it real for us...we were right there in the stadium with you, Pop.

You gave me so much. You taught me so much; not just about ERA's and batting averages and strategy, but about how playing a game can teach you so much about life. And you also gave that to my son.

We miss you every day of our lives.

But I miss you most during the Series.

Happy Birthday, Pop.

Love,
Betta