They’re like lint, dandruff, garlic. The Cleveland Indians won’t go away.
But they are going home, and if the Florida Marlins don’t detect a slight chill disrupting this beach party all of a sudden, how are they going to feel Tuesday night when they stick their little Coppertoned noses out of the dugout in Jacobs Field, Ohio?
When was the last time the Marlins were as cold as it’s going to be then and there, anyway? April at Wrigley Field? One huge difference. You can beat the Cubs with mittens on instead of gloves. You can beat the Cubs wearing handcuffs, a blindfold and leg irons.
These scruffy Cleveland Indians are not nearly as cooperative. In fact, they’re downright stubborn, as unyielding as a toothache.
They went into New York three weeks ago, at the behest of the Yankees, who were about to begin defense of their 1996 championship. The Yankees didn’t want Seattle, they wanted Cleveland. The Indians blew a 5-0 lead in the opener, which they lost. Then they were supposed to get lost, too. All of them, whoever they are.
But the Indians didn’t care for the story line, so they wound up in Baltimore, where the Orioles were relieved about not having to face the Yankees. The Orioles eased to a 3-0 victory in the opener, and when somebody asked their manager about his pitcher for Game 5, Davey Johnson wondered aloud whether there would be a Game 5.
When the Indians screwed up that assignment too and won the American League pennant, a lot of us experts figured their number was up. There’s a statute of limitations on scoring runs in weird ways to vanquish superior teams.
No more surprises. Goodbye, Indians, and don’t come back. Nice season, but it’s over.
But, of course, it’s not. The Indians whipped the Marlins 6-1 Sunday night to tie this Series 1-1. Only hours after Orel Hershiser, a man who loves October, was driven from the mound as though it were March, the Indians turned around and battered Florida’s ace, Kevin Brown.
Battered, schmattered. The Indians don’t worry about style points. Brown is a ground-ball pitcher, so the Indians hit ground balls, several of which became hits in the fifth inning, when Cleveland built a 4-1 lead that was enough for Chad Ogea.
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Chad Who? Not only did he chloroform the Marlins and an audience of 67,025–many of whom jumped from the bandwagon to parking lots in record time–but Ogea dumped this fine sacrifice bunt to keep that rally moving, just before Bip Roberts singled for two runs.
Same new Indians. Two years ago, with scowling Albert Belle in charge of the attack, the Indians thought chemistry was a double with the bases loaded. Now the Indians observe the subtleties and wear other teams out.
Everybody can’t wait to play the Indians, but the Indians are no fun to play. If you don’t like them, it’s never too late to respect them.
First it was the Big Apple, then Baltimore, now it’s South Florida. The Indians tiptoe into town, like tourists looking for a cheap hotel room and the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet. They’re as presumptuous as potted plants, and about as loud. Instead of patting themselves on the back, though, the Indians hit the cutoff man.
If the rest of America is yawning, the city of Cleveland isn’t. The Marlins had better be ready for what’s about to hit them Tuesday night. Earmuffs would be nice. Ear plugs might be necessary.