By John Krull
TheStatehouseFile.com

INDIANAPOLIS – Four years ago, my son and I took a trip we still talk about.

We drove to Cleveland, Ohio, to see our beloved Cleveland Indians play the Chicago Cubs in the first game of the 2016 World Series.

We sprinted from Indianapolis as soon as my son got out of school, pushing through without stops to get to the game. It was a chilly night, and our seats were up in the stratosphere. Even dressed in several layers, we had to hunch down to stay warm.

We had planned to stop at a hotel in Columbus after the game to catch a couple of hours of sleep before driving back to Indy and another school day for my son, along with another workday for me. But there were no rooms to be had.

So, we drove through the night, arriving back at our house a little after 5 a.m. We spooked the dog and awakened my wife and daughter – both of whom thought we were more than a little crazy – from sound slumbers when we came in.

My son and I slept for about an hour each, then limped our ways through the rest of the day.

It was worth it.

The reason it was worth it is that my son and I were and are devoted Cleveland Indians fans.

Critics have pointed out through the years that the team name – Indians—was offensive to many people. They also have noted that the longtime team logo – Chief Wahoo – was racist.

Both points are valid.

But I wasn’t a fan of the name or of the logo. I was a fan of the team.

The source of my devotion isn’t that hard to determine.

I was born in Cleveland. The first professional baseball games I ever saw were Indians games my father took me to when I was barely old enough to walk. Even though I understood only a little of what was going on out on the field, I loved the experience of going to the ballpark with my dad.

I learned then the clichés that also are eternal truths.

Hot dogs always taste better at a baseball game.

And, of course, a bad day at the ballpark beats a good day at the office every time.

Several decades later, when I became a father, the first major-league games I ever took my daughter and my son to were Indians games. My daughter’s interest in baseball waned fast, but my son became obsessed with the game.

At least once, often two or three times, he and I would travel to Cleveland for a weekend to catch two, three or even four games.

One memorable time, my father came with us. Between games, we drove over to the lower working-class neighborhood where my parents lived when I was a child. In the grassy stretch behind the duplex that had been our home in the early 1960s, my dad, my son,   and I played a game, just as Dad and I had when I was small.

I tried to explain to my son once that being a Tribe fan could be a painful experience. I told him that I had lived more than a half-century and that the Indians hadn’t won the World Series once in my lifetime.

But that may be the point.

I don’t root for the Cleveland Indians because I expect them to win every game or every year. I root for them for the same reason I root for Cleveland and other struggling rustbelt cities – because I believe in underdogs, in the value of the little guy, in the hope that good, hardworking people always will find ways to endure and build good lives.

More than that, I’m an Indians fan because I think of their games as experiences I had with my father and their ballpark as the place where I once watched my 80-year-old father gleefully chase his grandson around the bases when the Tribe opened the field after a game.

The Indians are set to change their name. The team acknowledged that the name is offensive and therefore should be changed.

It’s a good decision.

While the name may change, other things won’t.

I’ll still be a guy who was born in Cleveland.

And my son and I still will be fans.

FOOTNOTE; John Krull is director of Franklin College’s Pulliam School of Journalism and publisher of TheStatehouseFile.com, a news website powered by Franklin College students.

THE CITY-COUNTY OBSERVER POSTED THIS ARTICLE WITHOUT OPINION, BIAS, OR EDITING.