Mr. Gaskell
My grade school no longer exists. My Junior High School was also torn down long ago. My High School? There is a nice lawn there now. The last time I drove by, there was a gaggle of geese lounging about. No worries, as long as they don’t send bulldozers into Harvard Yard, I will be just fine.
My grade school principal, at least for the last couple of years of my stay, was Mr. Gaskell. He was a friendly fellow. I have a vague recollection of a tyrant who was there before him. That guy ruled through intimidation. I don’t believe I ever heard him talk; all he ever did was yell. I have no idea who he was, and I am not inclined to find out. He’s most likely dead, and I am fine with that. That man was a jerk. He made me hate getting up and going to school.
So, what about Mr. Gaskell? What kind of principal was he? I remember him telling me that he would fight Muhammad Ali for $1,000,000. He had his fight strategy all planned out; as soon as he heard the opening bell, he would curl up in a ball on the canvas and then collect his check. I told him that I didn’t think he had to worry; I didn’t see Don King presenting him with any such offer.
I recall him as a good guy, a man genuinely concerned with the kids he was responsible for. But why an essay? What did he do to become the topic of this post?
Well, about 50 years ago, I used to have nearly daily battles with him. The topic was always the same. I would defend my beloved Cleveland Indians, and he would consistently hit back with the undeniable truth. Sadly, the reality was they stunk year after year after year. As I recall, over thirty years in a row finishing at least ten games out of first place. Back in the late 60s and early 70s, I was immune to such facts. They were my team, and I died with them every summer (there wasn’t much living to do back then when it came to Cleveland baseball).
“Yeah, you just wait until next year.”
“Oh, I’ll wait all right, but it will be a lot longer than a year. They stunk this year, and they will stink next year and the year after that and the year after that…”
“You’ll see. You just wait.”
I always told him that I would call him the instant the Indians won a World Series. I had my phone out in 1997, but Jose Mesa inexplicably refused to throw a fastball. Mr. Gaskell and I didn’t talk that day.
Mr. Gaskell always told me that I would live out my life never seeing the Cleveland Indians win a World Series. “It’ll never happen. Mark my words.” Sigh…
The Cleveland baseball club just announced a name change. The Indians are becoming the Guardians, and it looks like Mr. Gaskell was right. This year’s team is deeply flawed, and I don’t see them winning a championship. After the season ends, the Indians transform into the Guardians, and that is that. Mr. Gaskell can bask in the glow of his prediction.
My perspective on all of this has drastically changed through the years. Fortunately, I gave up long ago; I discovered that rooting for the Indians was like having a prolonged toothache. It was all pain and suffering; there was never anything good to grab on to. The experience was one low after another; I didn’t see any hope, so I removed myself from the fanbase.
Of course, many people will argue that the team got a lot better in the mid-90s and has sustained its winning ways. I did take something away from this period. The only thing I learned was the different types of pain experienced when your team gets close. Finishing a couple outs from a championship is much different than finishing last. That new kind of pain is much worse than the other. Knowing your team had a real chance only to let it slip away is a lot more bothersome than finishing 35 games out of first.
As it stands, the Cleveland Guardians can win five or six World Series in a row, and I will shrug and go about my day. I stopped caring a long time ago. I had to; toothache pain is among the worst pain I have ever suffered.
