October 10, 2007

A MYTHICAL MASTERPIECE—THE STORY OF MIDGES AND MEN

       It was hot that night in Ohio, much muggier than could have been expected for an early autumn evening.  More than fifty thousand eager followers jammed into the city’s baseball cathedral, hopeful that the annual heartache would soon be over so a celebration not seen in these parts for nearly sixty years could begin.  Their warriors had heroically manhandled the descendents from the evil Yankee empire in the first game of the series, but this was a much tougher battle.  The continuing struggles of their heroes, the diminishing time, and the increasing thickness in the air had seriously eroded their anticipation and replaced it with a worrisome silence.  It was then that the swampy lowlands of the city’s accursed river resuscitated their suffocating hopes and answered their appeals for a miracle.

             The game had moved with the slow deliberate motion of a centipede crawling across the road.  It was another casualty of the heavy evening air.  The heroes of Cayahoga County had threatened many times, but an early swat of a Yankee bat had stood the test of time and it began to look like the one run would be enough to even the series and, with the next two games in New York, swing the momentum to the other side.  The Yankees, brimming with confidence, could now send out their intimidating youngster, a rookie who had yet to taste failure, for one inning, and then they could bring in the legend to would finish it.  For the long-suffering featherheads of the Cayahoga hope was boarding a slow train out of town.  The dream, six decades overdue, was almost gone.

       In one of the many languages of the Iroquois Cayahoga means crooked river and for Cleveland the river that runs through the city has been both an embarrassment and a burden to its residents.   The river that caught on fire, and more than once, is how they describe it in Cayahoga County.   But that night the odiferous and burdensome river overflowed with millions of flying insects abuzz with life, and an eruption occurred sending those annoying little midges out into the city.  The lights, the noise, the grass, and the moisture of the city’s imposing baseball stadium drew the swarms, and drew the flying insects toward the players unfortunate enough to be standing under the lights at the time.   

      For what was actually a few minutes, but seemed like hours, the Yankees had to fight off an even larger foe.  They lost.  As quickly as they had arrived the midges vanished and the game returned to its nervous and methodical pace.  The difference though was that the game was now even. 

       That the Indians ended up winning the game, and eventually the series, seemed pre-determined.  The spirits of the Cayahoga had lent a helping hand.  Even the desperate bark of the Yankee boss could not stem the tide.  If the Indians believe that the spirits are with them then they may finally end the long wait and realize a dream many featherheads likely never imagined. 

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