Baseball Blog

I loved covering baseball. The sounds, the smells, the pace of the game. It all just felt right to my sensibilities.

One of my favorite things about baseball at Cleveland Stadium was The Wigwam, the private dining room where a pregame meal was served to media members, team officials and VIPs. The food wasn't great, but the company was often amazing.

The best part was that you never knew who you would wind up sitting next to.

I did get some story ideas, some notes and some quotes during those pregame meals, but more often I just got to hear wonderful stories about the game of baseball and the characters who played the game.

One memorable day, I walked into The Wigwam and found myself seated next to actor-comedian Danny Kaye, who was part owner of the Seattle Mariners. He made one road trip with the team each year and, this time, wound up spending a couple of days in Cleveland.

Danny was a talented performer, but he was also a brilliant individual. In middle age, he decided to take up golf and, within two years, was a six-handicap. He got his pilot's license in his 50s and was also so knowledgeable about medicine that surgeons allowed him to sit on on operations as an observer. And he loved to tell stories.

He was in the midst of an entertaining tale about Bing Crosby and Bob Hope and their ties to baseball when we both suddenly realized the game had started and we were still sitting in The Wigwam.

Danny came and sat with me in the press box for a few innings and asked if he could keep score for me. When he left, he handed me the book and his scoring was perfect - so much neater than mine. I asked him to sign the book, which he did. I still have that score book somewhere.

The Indians were generally a mediocre team during my five years in Cleveland, but they did have some good moments.

Heading into July in 1976, the Indians were in second place, trailing the New York Yankees by six games and facing a four-game series in Cleveland. When the Tribe won the opener and cut the lead to five games, the excitement level in Cleveland increased exponentially.

The Friday night game drew 35,800 spectators, by far the biggest crowd of the year. Unfortunately, the Indians lost 7-1. But excitement remained high with two more games to play.

Both the Saturday and Sunday games drew crowds of more than 60,000. But even with the backing of such huge and enthusiastic crowds, the Indians could not overcome their ineptitude. They lost the last three games of the Yankees series, lost nine of 10 in that stretch and wound up finishing fourth in their division that season. It was pretty much the last hurrah on my watch.

Another of my favorite things while covering Indians games was the eating. There was a small alcove behind the press box where hot dogs, peanuts and popcorn were always available during the games. More important, there was Cleveland Stadium Mustard, the best spicy mustard ever made, in my humble opinion.

I ate way too many of those hot dogs, partly because I couldn't get enough of that mustard. A few years ago, my cousin and former stringer Ian (Ike) Krieger sent me a few jars of that wonderful mustard. It's just as good now as it was then, although somehow it doesn't taste quite the same without the sounds and smells of the ballpark.

During my frequent between-inning trips to that alcove, I would often run into Indians' broadcasters Herb Score and Joe Tait.

Herb was a former major league pitcher whose career was cut short by a line drive to the face. But he loved baseball and knew the game as well as anyone. During our brief meetings behind the press box, he would often explain something that had happened in the game and shine a new light on what I thought I knew. It was a big part of my baseball education.

Joe was the radio voice of Indiana Pacers for my first couple of years covering the ABA. And he was just a friendly guy and one helluva broadcaster.

And we all loved those ball park hot dogs with mustard.

One of my most embarrassing moments took place in the grandstand at Cleveland Stadium during an Indians game.

Judy likes baseball because it's a quiet, slow game that she can follow and it's generally played in warm weather. She particularly enjoys it when I sit with her and explain the strategy taking place on the field.

I brought her and the kids, who were both still in diapers, to an afternoon game on a pleasant August day in 1976. I sat with them in the grandstand boxes, along the first base line, for the first eight innings, keeping score and enjoying the day and being with the family as much as possible.

I had met Glen Frey and Don Henley of the Eagles rock band at a hockey game the previous winter and I noticed after a while that they were sitting just behind us at the baseball game.

They remembered me and I introduced them to Judy. For the next inning or so, I spent a lot of time talking with them over my shoulder while holding Tory in my arms. Our diaper bag was under my feet.

I was engrossed in the conversation, although I can't remember the subject, when Judy tapped on my shoulder and said, "Michael!"

Without looking back, I said, "Just a minute."

Again, she tapped on my shoulder and again, I just waved her away, still involved in my conversation.

This time, she said in a loud, strident voice, "Michael!"

I looked around and said in a not very nice way, "What is it?"

She said, "I have a handful of s..t and I need the diaper bag."

Turns out she had smelled something, reached down to check Lanni's diaper and came up with a handful of poop. Under the circumstances, Judy had been very patient - until she wasn't.

Needless to say, the conversation with the Eagles was over and done. They drifted away quietly a couple of inning later without even a goodbye.

One of my favorite stories happened in Cleveland Stadium, too.

I grew up in Wisconsin and was a fan of the Milwaukee Braves. To this day, I can recite the lineups and statistics of those teams in the 1950s. My favorite player on the Braves was third baseman Eddie Mathews, who later was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.

Usually, I was able to leave the ballpark after a game while there were still a lot of people around. But on this particular night, I had to write a story about the Cavaliers after I finished my Indians coverage. By the time I left the ballpark, it was dark and deserted.

My car was parked in the otherwise empty lot just a few steps from the media entrance and I was almost to the door when I saw a very large silhouette looming in the darkness and moving toward me. I was spooked and thought I was about to get mugged when the person stepped into the single overhead light.

It was a large, well-dressed man with a smile on his face and I relaxed. I also knew that face from somewhere.

He said, "How do you get a cab around here this time of night?"

I said, "Your best bet is to walk up the hill toward the Terminal Tower. You should find a cab up there. It's only a couple of blocks."

He started to walk away and, now that I had stopped fearing for my life, my brain clicked into gear.

"Hey, I can give you a ride up to the Tower."

He turned around, stuck out his hand and said, "Thank you. My name is Eddie Mathews and I would love a ride."

I was thrilled to meet one of my childhood heroes and told him so. He was staying at the Hollenden House Hotel and I offered to drop him there.

Eddie told me he was scouting for the Oakland Athletics and was in Cleveland  checking out several players for a possible trade. When we got to the hotel, he asked if he could buy me a beer.

I don't really drink beer, but you don't turn down an offer from your hero. I sipped a beer and managed to keep him telling stories until the bar shut down at 2 a.m. Eddie was the only guy to play with the Braves in Boston, Milwaukee and Atlanta, so he had plenty of stories to tell.

He came to Cleveland several more times over the next two years and always called me and offered to buy me a beer. I never turned him down.

Things didn't always run so smooth in my baseball days.

I had run-ins - unintentional - with two managers, both of them over what I thought were very innocent questions.

The first came in my second year in Cleveland when the Detroit Tigers were in town. The Tigers were managed by Ralph Houk, a former Marine and known to be a tough guy.

After the Indians beat the Tigers in a close game, I ran into the visiting manager's office and asked about a late pitching change and why Houk had made the move at that particular moment.

He took offense at my question, leaped out of his seat and started to come around the desk with his hands balled into fists and fire in his eyes.

I must have looked shocked, and probably very afraid, and he stopped in his tracks and said, "Next question."

At that point, I had no more questions and made my exit.

A year or so later, I was part of a post-game scrum around Yankees' fiery manager Billy Martin. They had won the game, but Martin appeared to be in some kind of funk. Maybe he was about to be fired by George Steinbrenner - again.

I asked him why he had chosen to bring in a left-handed reliever to face a right-handed batter when he also had a righty ready in the bullpen. Generally, managers try to go with a right-handed pitcher against a right-handed batter. It's the percentage thing to do.

For whatever reason, Martin took offense at my question and launched a string of epithets that were actually very colorful and somewhat original. Several of the Yankees writers started to chuckle and that made Martin even more angry.

He got up and hovered over me like he was going to start punching. This time, I stayed calm, at least outwardly, and said in a very measured tone, "I meant nothing by that question. I just noticed you went against the percentages and I wondered why?"

The fire drained out of Martin's eyes and he walked back around his desk, sat down and gave me a decent answer to my question, as if nothing had happened. I'm not sure I even wrote down his answer, but I got out of there in a hurry.

A couple of the New York writers later came over to me in the press box and told me they had never seen Martin calm down that fast. I'm just glad it worked.