Orel Hershiser is the Fourth Eumenide

I love Hersh. He was the face of veteran leadership on the Indians teams of the mid 90s. Pitched well in the 97 postseason, though he went 0-2 against Fat-Cuban-Fuck Livan Hernandez in the Series, and was involved in back-to-back-to-back home runs against he Yankees in Game 1 of the ALDS. So all my prominent memories of Hersh’s playing days at the corner of Carnegie and Ontario are bad, yet I still am very fond of him. He moved on following the Series Tragedy, and eventually retired. I wished him well and generally find his announcing vastly preferable to Joe Morgan.


Living in Cincinnati now, I don’t get to see the Tribe on TV that often, so when ESPN picks up the game, its an event, an event usually commented upon by Hersh. In the first game, against the Sawx, I actually found it somewhat endearing when Hersh mentioned two or three times how he is still haunted by losing that Series, how he still hates to even look at a Marlins uniform, and so on. I feel the same way. It was a reopening of old wounds, but done by someone who loves me, and was ripping off his own scabs at the same time. This made is somehow better, though also infinitely more creepy. Hersh is back in town to do a game in the Yankees series, and again he brings up his lingering pain from the 97 season, in part of a montage of the general futility of Cleveland sports. It was 11 years ago. Can we please stop mentioning it? It is nice to spend a night every decade or so amongst a community of the survivors of tragedy, but to make such a place one’s home is to at best to become as crazy/scary/cool as the Israelis, and at worst as crazy/crazy/crazy as Buffalonians.

Edgar Renterina is the only man other than my father, my brother, and myself who I have seen make my mother cry, but I can’t change that he brought in that Series-clinching run (though I do continue to wish ill upon him and every single last member of his genetic family tree).

Can’t the dead just leave us in peace?