Goodbye and good riddance, Chief Wahoo
ACLEVELAND t Municipal Stadium on the shore of Lake Erie, the crowd that came out to see the Cleveland Indians play often seemed to be just me, some neighbors and the team mascot, Chief Wahoo. This was in the 1960s, when the Indians were horrible and the team averaged 9,000 fans per game in the 78,000-capacity venue. We could sit wherever we wanted after the third inning. The old stadium was demolished in 1996, and Chief Wahoo — the actual 28-foot neon logo looming over Gate D — came down, too.
On Jan. 29, the Cleveland Indians owner, Paul Dolan, and the commissioner of Major League Baseball, Rob Manfred, said the chief ’s time is up. The racist logo will be off the uniform by the 2019 baseball season.
Chief Wahoo — the version from the stadium — wound up at the Western Reserve Historical Society, a center of Cleveland memorabilia and regional history. When you walk into the historical society, you see the chief and then, to your left, the classic Cleveland-manufactured cars from the early 20th century. Cleveland likes its history. And we have no beef with nostalgia, either.
For instance, I have a 1958 baseball card on my desk of Roger Maris in an Indians uniform. Maris played for the Indians for a minute. What if he had hit 61 homers for the Indians instead of the Yankees? The world would be a better place, that’s what. Chief Wahoo is plastered all over the Maris card. Mr. Dolan, the Indians owner, said Wahoo paraphernalia will still be available in northeast Ohio, exclusively, after next year. Keep the locals happy.
I’m a landlord, and I once rented to a graphic design shop that did good cash flow with “Keep the Chief in Cleveland” T-shirts and other Cleveland-themed gear. Many locals love Wahoo. My wife’s cousin George Becker is against getting rid of the chief. He said: “Chief Wahoo is a representation of Cleveland. It’s highly identifiable with this town. Why have somebody from another city tell us who we are? They don’t know what makes this city tick.” He paused. “But at least we’ll still be able to buy the Chief Wahoo tchotchkes here.”
I’ve played gigs beneath the Wahoo logo at the historical society. (When I’m not a landlord, I’m a musician.)
I did a duo gig with the guitarist Irwin Weinberger, whose parents were Holocaust survivors from Poland. The Wahoo sign irked Irwin. Last week, he said to me: “Yahoo! Wahoo! It’s fantastic that Wahoo is gone. That caricature reminded me of the Jews in Germany. It was a very degrading symbol. I understand what it’s like to be a cultural ethnicity, and to be used in a way you don’t want to be used.”
I like saying “Tribe” — shorthand for “Cleveland Indians.” “Tribe” might be gone in a few years, along with “Indians.” I’ll miss that. I won’t miss the logo.
Bill Veeck, who owned the Indians when the team last won the World Series, in 1948, first promoted the Wahoo logo. Veeck was a bit eccentric for Cleveland. He once sent a dwarf to the plate as a publicity stunt. Veeck didn’t like to wear a tie. My dad didn’t like to wear a tie, either. My dad wanted to be like Veeck — independent. For 18 years, my dad worked at a company that made car keys. He eventually escaped and got into the real estate business, which I went into, too. He said he’d take me to the World Series. He didn’t live long enough.
As part of my real estate job, my dad sent me to bars during the day. The bars were dimly lighted. On sunny days, in particular, my eyes would take a minute to adjust. It would be like entering a fun house; I’d trip and stumble. I could see only lit cigarettes. For extra spatial guidance, I tracked the bartender’s voice, which said something like, “It’s dead around here.” That was the typical greeting to me, even when the bar wasn’t dead.
Bar owners — and other retail owners — like to say it’s dead to the landlord, so that the rent won’t go up. A letter carrier at the bar read the sports page. Another postal worker said, “Anything about softball in there?”
“Yeah, the Indians. They hit the soft ball.” That was how it went in Cleveland — for years. You’ve got to be tough in Cleveland, or fake it. I was born in Cleveland, and my last blood relative left in 2001. Most of my relatives went to warmer places or died. So Chief Wahoo is packing up. Big deal. Go Tribe. Bert Stratton is a musician and landlord in Cleveland, Ohio. He is an occasional contributor to The New York Times and other newspapers. He blogs at Klezmer Guy: Real Music & Real Estate.