Bottom of the 8th inning, Indians batting, down 5-3.
Albert Belle walks. Manny Ramirez flies out to right. Herbert Perry pops out to first. Paul Sorrento walks, moving Belle to second. Sandy Alomar pops out to third.
I sat in my seat about midway up in section 184 thinking I was about to witness another Indians loss. But then again, this was a time when the Tribe were transitioning from bad baseball to pennant-winning baseball. It was July 18, 1995. I was 16. Justin Falcone sat next to me. He was 15. Next to him was his grandpa, Mr. Chic. He was 67 at the time, a HUGE fan of Cleveland Indians baseball. He was one of the old-timers who would follow pitch-by-pitch the entire 162-game schedule, either in-person, on the tube or from the voice of Herb Score on 1460 AM radio. The only games he’d miss were probably because of family functions. Yes, his priorities were in order.
Justin offered me the ticket earlier that day. We’d get a ride to the stadium in Mr. Cicconetti’s truck and he’d hang out with us to watch the game from the bleachers at the new Jacobs Field.
While trucking down Route 2 I remembered him asking me if I’d been to the new stadium. I had. But he gazed through the windshield and told me anyway, that it was nice, but it didn’t compare to the old Municipal Stadium. I remember him saying that and found it odd because my grandpa Felix used to say the same thing when plans were in place to start building it. Grandpa Felix died in 1992 and never got so see The Jake (it debuted in ’94), but then again, he was an old-timer too and he hated to see the old stadium go.
I ran the plans by my parents and they were on board. I remember sprinting from the garage and down the street to the Falcone’s house so Justin and I could get ready and cut through the backyards to his grandparents’ house. We were amped for this game and didn’t want to go back home with a loss.
Anyway, after Alomar popped out to end the 8th, Tribe fans began heading for the exits in typical Cleveland fashion. Gotta beat the traffic! It was a sellout crowd that day and I’d guess about 10,000 fans headed for the exits. Normally, we too probably would’ve bolted for the parking lot. But Justin and I looked over at Mr. Chic and he remained seated, staring toward the field smiling. We weren’t going anywhere until the fat lady sang her song.
Paul Assenmacher mowed ‘em down 1-2-3 in the top of the 9th, with the then-California Angels still leading 5-3.
Bottom of the 9th, Wayne Kirby hustles-out an infield single on a grounder to first base. He was stubby, but he was fast! Jim Thome, who was supposed to have the night off, pinch-hit for Ruben Amaro, and ultimately struck out swinging. That was a run-and-hit, and Kirby swiped second. So we had one out, one on second. Just as good as a sacrifice.
Next up, Omar Vizquel singled between short and third. There was no play as the speedy Kirby ran on contact and made it from second to third, and the quick young Vizquel made it to first without a throw. One out, runners on the corners. Angels 5, Tribe 3.
Carlos Baerga comes to the plate and walks, loading the bases. Angels closer Lee Smith is now shaking in his Mizunos as none other than Belle chucks his donut to the ground in the on-deck circle and slowly makes his way to the batters box, setting the stage with the bases loaded. The crowd is on its feet, John Thompson is banging his drum behind us.
Belle falls behind in the count, 1 ball / 2 strikes. Next pitch, THWAP! The crack of the bat never sounded more sweet. It was a long, powerful, line-drive to deep left-center. The ball was carrying, carrying, carrying … then … GONE! Into the seats! GRAND SALAMI!
TRIBE WINS! TRIBE WINS! Final score 7-5!
I remember not being able to see the field because everyone was up, out of their seats jumping up and down and the place was going bananas. Mr. Chic, Justin and I were high-fiving complete strangers and hugging one another.
One of my best Cleveland sports moments, definitely the top of my list as far as Indians baseball goes. And I got to share it with a man who had given me so much. The thing is, at that time I hadn’t known exactly what he’d given me.
Mr. Chic passed away 10 days ago. I’ve read about him and I’ve spoken with my parents about him since that somber June 11th day. I’ve learned EXACTLY how much he’s meant to not only his family but also how much he’s meant to the community where I was born and raised – and where he lived his entire life.
There was a connection there that I hadn’t seen before until I sat down and reflected. What did Mr. Chic share with me? Well, he shared quite a lot.
My earliest memories of him were going over to the Falcone’s house for summer cookouts. He’d be putting together teams for games of side-yard, scramble-style bocce. He always seemed to have a smile on his face and there’d always seem to be a young grandkid in his lap. Sometimes he’d simply be sitting there in a lawn chair, keeping to himself, observing his family with an arm dangling down toward the grass scratching the head of one of the dogs. He seemed content, having such a huge family that loved each another and always shared these moments amongst one other (and with a few of the lucky neighbors.)
Whenever the Cicconetti-Falcone family would go out of town for their family vacations – whether it be to Salt Fork or Maumee Bay – I’d somehow become trusted enough by Mr. Chic to take care of his garden with a simple watering chore, twice a day. Damn his garden was magnificent, probably still is. But that simple task made me feel important. I knew how much those flowers meant to him. He’d show me EXACTLY how to use the hose, so as not to apply too much water pressure because the flowers were delicate. My Mom would remind me, “Have you taken care of Mr. Cicconetti’s flowers yet? You better get over there before it gets dark, mister!” I couldn’t have been more than 12 years old at the time.
Now, 20 years later, I asked my Mom, “I remember you telling me about how grandma and Mrs. Cicconetti would wash everyone’s hair or something. What was that about?”
Apparently, Mr. Chic and my grandpa Felix worked together at Diamond Alkali back in the 50s, 60s and 70s. They became good friends and their wives, Jackie and Helen, respectively, formed a close bond. Jackie had 7 daughters and my grandma Helen had 2. So, while their men were at work, Jackie and Helen would get together, hang out while the children played (12 in all, including the boys), and apparently all I remembered from those stories was the hair-washing chores for the 9 girls. Must’ve been a long process.
The friendship was so special that it bridged not one, but two generations. My parents remained close with the Cicconetti-Falcone family, and their kids continued that sacred bond with sleepovers, card trading, squirt gun fights, foot chases and whiffle ball games. And to think, all this started way back in the 1950s with Mr. Chic and my grandpa Felix. Two cronies who shared a love for gardening and Indians baseball. I look back now and wonder if Mr. Chic thought of my grandpa Felix when I sat with him and Justin at the Tribe game in 1995. I wonder if they ever went downtown and saw a game together.
To this day, although we rarely see one another any more, I still consider Mr. Chic and Jackie as a third set of grandparents, I consider their children as aunts and uncles, and I consider their grandkids as cousins.
I have many other fond memories of Mr. Chic, from trips to the Oasis ice cream store with his grandkids to driving around in the truck splashing through rain puddles as we giggled in the back. He always treated my brothers and I as if we were part of the family.
He was a truly remarkable man and he has left behind a truly remarkable family. When the world loses men like him, they are not replaced. They leave a void that cannot be filled. But one thing is for sure, men like him leave behind a legacy that will last forever.
