I was six years old when I had my first crush. He was tall, devastatingly handsome, extremely talented and like most crushes, he had no idea I existed. He was Kenny Lofton, outfielder for the Cleveland Indians. I was sitting in the nosebleed section of the then brand new Jacobs Field, having been rewarded for all "E"s on my first grade report card with two tickets to an Indians game.
I knew immediately that I loved baseball games. They included all of my favorite things: hot dogs, soda (though at that time in my life I was still calling it "pop") and my dad. Baseball tickets, like everything else in Cleveland, were cheap, so we went to quite a few games that summer. By September I was hooked.
I watched the postseason with questionable comprehension, but great enthusiasm as we became American League champions and went on to face the Atlanta Braves in what was arguably the most politically incorrect World Series ever. We lost after six games, and it being long past my bedtime, my lower lip started to tremble. My dad picked me up and comforted me with these words: "We'll get it next time, kiddo."
Fast-forward two years. It was 1997 and the Indians had made it to the World Series again. At nine years old, I was a seasoned baseball fan, decked out in Chief Wahoo gear (the inappropriateness of which would soon dawn on me), and not just watching the games, but actually understanding them.
One night in late October, I sat on the couch with my dad, watching as the Indians dominated Florida in Game 7. I remembered the '95 series, and what he had told me. This was "next time."
We were this close to victory, and we were going to win. Things were looking good. We were up by two, and then by one, and then the unthinkable happened. I watched in horror as the Marlins tied up the score, forcing the game into extra innings. At the bottom of the eleventh, Edgar Renteria hit a home run, ending the game and the series. The Indians had lost. I stared in disbelief at the screen, even after my dad had turned off the television.
We had become the first team ever to lose the World Series after carrying the lead all the way up until the bottom of the ninth inning of the seventh game, but of course I did not know that at the time. All I knew was that I was in fourth grade, and I had been about as let down as I could handle. I had long division homework to do. And so went my break-up with the Cleveland Indians.
In the decade that followed, I had as little interaction with baseball as possible. I learned to like other sports: I watched Big Ten football (because honestly, what kind of person watches the NFL when your team is the Cleveland Browns?) and I followed the Cleveland Cavaliers. Whenever anyone asked me about baseball, my response was, "Oh, I don't really like baseball." The other person would always walk away looking confused, and rightly so because the truth is that no one "doesn't like baseball."
Those who say they don't like baseball fall into two categories: people who don't understand the game and are too proud or too pretentious to ask for explanation, and people who bear the secret pain of an emotionally scarring (baseball) loss.
For ten years, I was the poster child for the latter group. The only conversation I was willing to have regarding the Indians was about how tasteless, archaic and downright offensive their mascot was (and is), both in name and in appearance.
I even threatened to become a Red Sox fan upon arriving at school. In this way I protected myself, but my hostility and cold indifference towards the Tribe could not heal the wounds that the 1997 World Series inflicted.
Their performance in the 2007 postseason, however, could.
After a decade of hibernation, the Tribe fan inside me is back and ready to roll. Call me a fair-weather fan, but I think it goes much deeper than that. The Indians hurt me when I was vulnerable, but they have been working hard for ten years to get to where they are now, and it has paid off. They have won me back.
Let's be honest, I never really stopped loving them. I was just young and scared of that love. Well, I am all grown up now, so bring it on Boston! This time around, I'm standing by my man (Kenny Lofton still plays for the Indians - he knew I would come around).
Now don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for Boston baseball. I applaud Red Sox fans, because not one of them would have done what I did. They are a fan base the likes of which I had never seen before coming here. Sox fans suck it up and roll with the punches; hell, you guys toughed it out through an 86-year "curse" with unwavering loyalty to your boys.
Not only that, but virtually everyone who lives in the Boston area is a Sox fan, no questions asked. Not understanding the game is not an option; Sox fans do their homework, and I respect that.
That being said, you can't change where you are from, and I am a Clevelander, born and raised. Suddenly I am that girl watching ESPN Gamecast on her laptop while she is studying in Tisch, the one who whoops when everyone else is groaning at the TV in the gym. The Indians and I are reunited, and it feels so good.
If there was one thing I had forgotten about the game until this season, it was that baseball is classy. This was clear in Game Two as a Red Sox player gave our catcher a hand up after he took an awkward fall in extra-innings. So this is what I ask of you, Red Sox fans: should the Indians take the series, stay classy.
Hating on Indians (and the seven or eight Indians fans that attend Tufts) will not make you feel better, but something else can. If Cleveland won last night, you can wear your angry faces and verbally abuse the Midwest, but let a little part of you rejoice, because the win will have been for you too.
The win will be for you if you have ever rooted for the underdog, if you love a comeback, if you hate the Yankees (and thoroughly enjoyed watching us demolish them in Babe Ruth's house) or if you are just a sucker for a good love story: the love story of a girl and forty men.
Jessie Borkan is a sophomore majoring in child development.
