Baseball opening day in Cleveland: Always something new under the sun – Terry Pluto

CLEVELAND, Ohio –No sport celebrates opening day quite like baseball. It’s not as if the first baseball game is more important than the opener in football, hockey, basketball, soccer … or whatever.

“It’s one of 162,” I remember hearing often during my rookie year covering the Orioles for the Baltimore Evening Sun in 1979. I heard it later when I covered the Tribe for The Plain Dealer in the early 1980s.

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One of 162 games …

But it’s often the one I remember … opening day, a holiday in my home.

With opening day looming, I closed my eyes and thought back to more than a half-century ago.

Walking down the West Third Street Bridge comes to mind. You can pick your era. Mine was the 1960s when I discovered baseball thanks to my father.

WHAT ABOUT THE MEMORIES?

I remember a guy out front of the old stadium who had a dancing monkey as he asked for a few coins to feed it.

I remember another guy with a polaroid camera, taking random photos. The device spat out a picture and he tried to sell it to you – even though you didn’t ask him to take your picture.

I remember scorecards for a quarter, and you got a free golf pencil. I remember the smell of hot dogs on the grill and the unofficial parade of fans, most of them wearing some form of red, white and blue.

I remember the field. This was a black & white, three-channel TV world. We snaked our way up those old ramps and suddenly saw it ... that huge field with the greenest grass in the world and blue Lake Erie beyond the bleachers.

I remember the chairs, most of them painted faded yellow. I remember banging an empty chair up and down when Cleveland actually had a few men on base. I also remember my father buying tickets where we ended up behind a pole. We waited a few innings, and even on opening day we’d later find empty seats with a better view.

I remember baseball being back. One of 162, but the first one. The special one. The ones that still live in my heart because I was blessed to have a father who took me by the hand to these games.

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WHAT ABOUT NOW?

My father would be shocked to take his young son to a park as beautiful as Progressive Field. He would be guardedly excited about the current team, even though he wouldn’t like the name change.

My father subscribed to the comment made by former manager Terry Francona when the Tribe became the Guardians: “The most important thing is the uniform still says Cleveland on the front.” My father often worried the team would move, a real possibility in those days.

My father would love Jose Ramirez. He’d call him, “A real baseball player.”

He’d watch the first week of the 2024 season on TV and say, “The kid at short (Brayan Rocchio), I like him. Same with that (Steven) Kwan kid, now that’s a leadoff hitter. They got some good young arms. That Naylor (Josh) has a belly, but he can hit.”

My father would be overjoyed to have followed the team since it moved from the old stadium to what is now Progressive Field. Since 2013, they have had nine winning seasons, six trips to the playoffs.

He grew up in the 1930s, the Depression. His Tribe played at old League Park.

They never finished higher than third place or closer to first than 12 games. That also was when there were no divisions, just the American League and the National League with eight teams each. The Yankees won the World Series five times in that decade.

He’d like baseball so much more right now with more teams competing for playoff spots. As for the complaints about the Yankees and other big market teams spending more than Cleveland, he’d say, “There’s not much new under the sun.”

WHAT ABOUT THE ECLIPSE?

Those of us of a certain age think we are the only ones with memories – and it’s tempting to believe our memories are the best.

But there will be some kids making memories Monday. For some, their first baseball game will also be the same day as the solar eclipse – now that is something new under the sun.

Cellphones are like the heartbeat of most fans. My father would like all the information and stats available, but would be dismayed by the obsession with the phone.

“Somebody is going to be looking at their phone and get conked in the noggin with a foul ball,” he’d say.

My father was a meticulous scorekeeper. I bet he’d have a way to do it even with scorecards having gone the way of pitchers batting. He’d want to walk around the park, stopping by the bleachers now named after the late drummer – John Adams. We’d head to left field to check out the latest upgrades.

He’d buy us hot dogs. We’d share a box of popcorn.

Remembering my father, he’d say something like, “Let’s forget all that eclipse stuff and play ball.”

That’s right, play ball! It’s opening day.