EN GUARDIAN!

Forever? That's what you think.

As with vaccinations, sexual orientation, and brand of mustard, the reactions to the name change from Cleveland Indians to Cleveland Guardians appears to be based on your political affiliation. 

Some people consider the name rather dull, which makes sense when you realize they're named after the Guardians of Traffic, two statues on Cleveland's Hope Memorial Bridge. Why not sell the naming rights and call the team the EZ Passes?

 

Sorry, guys, only one of you is
worthy of remembrance. But thanks
for your service!

No one's pointed out that from 1932 to 1983, the Hope Memorial was named the Loraine-Carnegie Bridge, and I don't recall anyone making a stink over that change. Hope Memorial, if you're wondering, is named for William Henry Hope, one of the original stonemasons who helped build the Traffic Guardians. 

If you're wondering why he, rather than the dozens of other hard-working men, was singled out, it's because his son was a hometown boy named Bob. 

Yes, that Bob Hope, who should have been the inspiration of the new team name. The choices are nearly endless. The Ski-Noses. The Reactionaries. The Adulterers. Or, as the 1970s Soviet press coined him, the Pentagon Clowns. 

 

 

How about the Cleveland Stooges?

While I was initially cool toward the name Guardians, it grew on me, as it evoked those of the 19th-century pro baseball teams. The Boston Red-Stockings. The Brooklyn Bridegrooms. The Worcester Ruby Legs. Hey, Cleveland's first team had the coolest name of all with the Spiders, which you must admit is better than the Cockroaches.

Unlike those other defunct teams, the Spiders retain their place in baseball history, with their 1899 season unrivaled as the worst ever in the Major League  (20 wins, 134 losses). Finally, a sports team I could have played for!

About 10 years ago, when my daughter was going through a very brief interest in the New York Yankees, we were watching them play the Cleveland Indians. Out of nowhere she said, "I'd like to visit Cleveland", a sentence spoken by no one else ever. 

Look, if you need a lighthouse, it's a goddamn ocean!

But it seemed like a nice reason for a little father-daughter bonding, particularly because my wife had zero interest in going. We arrived in Cleveland late on a Friday afternoon, having flown over Lake Erie. By the way, now I know why they're called the Great Lakes, since this one looked the size of the Pacific Ocean.

We went to the Saturday evening game, where they were honoring one the Indians' former players with a ride around the field in a 1960s convertible and free bobble-head dolls for all. Our seats were in the third row at shortstop, which forced us to duck every time a foul ball was hit our way. 

That occasional physical danger was outweighed by the total seating price of somewhere around $100. Similar seats at Yankees Stadium, as I recall, were $400 at the time. And the hot dogs were cheaper, too. Which teams cares more about their fans?

I'll see you in my dreams...

With my daughter the proud owner of the bobble-head doll, I needed my own personal souvenir, too. Being a history buff, I went for a Cleveland Indians t-shirt featuring the original Chief Wahoo logo, which was even more offensive than the later one. 

I look back in wonder at the ease of walking around the Upper East Side with this thing affixed on my chestal area. Those were the waning days of getting away with displaying obnoxious (OK, racist) caricatures on t-shirts, even official team logos. I'm pretty sure I still have  it safely tucked away, never to be worn again, mainly because I fear for my own safety otherwise.

The wings of change fly to Cleveland.

 

 

The Guardians logo has kind of a pleasant retro vibe to it, though, and will be offensive to no one outside of those with grammaphobia (look it up). 

Since those folks are likely very small in number, Cleveland fans will forget how ticked off they were when their team lost their culturally-archaic name, and go back to focusing on not having won the World Series since 1948. You can't tell me Boston fans at Fenway Park yearn to cheer for the Red-Stockings once more. At least not before three Miller Lites by the fourth inning.

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