We vacationed in Cleveland. This is our story

Photo by DJ Johnson on Unsplash

Hello, Cleveland!

If Google is accurate, Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.” The thing is, Ralph Waldo Emerson never flew commercial out of LAX.

Our flight to Cleveland was a redeye, but we left our house five hours early to get the jump on rush hour traffic, unfuck a ticketing issue that couldn’t be unfucked online, and post up in an airport lounge so Christina could do some work and I could consume my body weight in chocolate chip cookies and cucumber water.

The flight to Cleveland only took four hours and thirty-nine minutes, but squeezing into a middle seat that would’ve made Harry Houdini claustrophobic has a way of turning a few hours into eternity. I tried to sleep, then I tried to read a mediocre space opera, then I questioned every decision that brought me to this point in my life.

By the time we landed, I felt like hammered dog shit. After silently cursing the slow-as-molasses motherfuckers who deplaned ahead of us, we stumbled through Hopkins International Airport toward the rental car shuttle. It was a quarter to six in the morning local time.

Despite the early hour, the woman working the Hertz counter was friendly.

“Just go to the President’s Circle. Pick any car you like, and have a great day!”

It was a dark and stormy morning outside. The parking lot had plenty of cars, but there was no sign of an area called The President’s Circle.

“Why do they call it the flippin’ President’s Circle, and where are they hiding it?” Chrisinta asked.

“Ohio produced a bunch of U.S. Presidents,” I said.

“Really? Who?”

“Grant, Garfield, Taft… some other dudes. Ohio ran shit back in the day.”

“Are we gonna do Presidential stuff while we’re here?”

“We will, if we find our car.”

Christina went back inside. I watched the bags. A minute later, she returned with the woman from Hertz.

“You’re standing in the President’s Circle,” the Hertz agent said in a chipper voice. “There’s no sign. Take any car you like, and have a great day!”

We picked a blue Hyundai Elantra because the only other choices were red and white Hyundai Elantras.

At the security gate, another friendly woman helped us check out.

“Quick question. Are you the gold member, or is she the gold member?”

“I’m the gold member,” Christina said from the passenger seat.

“OK, she needs to drive off the lot, but then you can drive after that.”

I looked at the area on the other side of the gate. Broken cement. A few stubborn weeds. Did this woman really want me to get out of the car so that Christina could drive five feet forward just to satisfy some goofy rule?

“Hertz policy,” the woman said. “Welcome to Ohio!”

We got out of the car and switched seats. But we didn’t bother switching back after Christina drove the five feet off the lot. We were too tired for Hertz’s tribute to Franz Kafka.

Jet lag, milkshakes, and baseball

When you arrive in town on a redeye, you really only have two options: go hard, or go to bed. Christina and I wanted to go hard, but our friend and host, Bridget, took one look at our tired faces and called an audible.

“We’re getting breakfast, then you two are taking a nap.”

A few minutes later, I was eating eggs and grits at Big Al’s diner. About an hour after that, I was sleeping off the jet lag in Bridget’s guest bedroom.

In the afternoon, we rallied to explore some of Cleveland Heights. Christina bought a book at Mac’s Backs-Books. Outside the bookstore, I met a homeless man who told me he lived under a nearby bridge, then offered paperwork to prove it. I told him he didn’t need proof.

“I need a dollar so I can get something to eat,” he said.

I had two dollars I didn’t need, so I gave the man two pictures of George Washington because I didn’t have any pictures of an Ohio President in my wallet. After wishing the man well, Bridget, Christina, and I grabbed an early dinner at Tommy’s.

Three customers and two waiters told me that The Move was to order a milkshake. Rolling Stone Magazine—an authority on liquid desserts, if ever there was one—called the Tommy’s milkshake the “best milkshake east of the Mississippi,” although the magazine didn’t speak to the beverage’s ability to bring all the boys to the yard.

“When in Cleveland…” I said.

“Hey, don’t we need to get a move on?” Christina asked. “The game starts in less than an hour.”

I looked up from the best milkshake I’ve ever consumed east of the Mississippi. Seeing the Cleveland Guardians play was one of my top priorities on this trip, but my jet-lagged brain had nearly forgotten the plan.

“Should we get our food to-go?” I asked. “I can chug this milkshake. I’ll get brain freeze, but that pain is nothing compared to the humiliation of showing up late to a ballgame wearing a Dodgers cap.”

“What’s your hat got to do with anything?” Christina asked.

“Honey, Dodger fans are ridiculed across the nation for showing up late and leaving early. It’s the traffic, not a moral failing. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to embody the stereotype.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bridget said with a laugh. “This is Cleveland. There’s no traffic.”

I didn’t believe Bridget. As an Angeleno, how could I? To me, a day without traffic isn’t a day at all. But a mere fifteen minutes after finishing our dinner and paying the check at Tommy’s, we walked into Progressive Field. As Mel Allen would say, “How about that?”

Unfortunately, the lack of traffic in Cleveland meant that the Seattle Mariners showed up at Progressive Field too. The Mariners came to play, but the Guardians didn’t. The final score was 4-0.

But the evening wasn’t a total loss. The weather played ball. A few foul balls came close enough to make me think I had a chance at snagging one. Christina bought me a giant bag of peanuts. Also, I eavesdropped on two salesmen plotting to oust their boss, two moms complaining about their kids, a trio of ladies who were disappointed that there weren’t any “hot guys” at the game, and chiropractor who told his friend he dreamed of calling it quits and opening a bar somewhere warm.

Plus, there were fireworks after the game!

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame

If the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame reminds you of the Louvre, blame architect I.M. Pei, who designed both museums and, apparently, loves glass pyramids.

They say the heart of rock & roll is in Cleveland, but why do they say that? According to Google, which only surfaces fact-checked truths from the misinformation content mines, a local record store owner named Leo Mintz and an Ohio disc jockey named Alan Freed are responsible.

From an article on the history of rock & roll on the Case Western Reserve website:

In the late 1940s, Leo Mintz, the owner of Record Rendezvous, saw the decrease in sales of big band records. Mintz, however, saw how his young customers would dance around his store when the manager played Rhythm & Blues (R&B) records. In order to eliminate the racial tone of this music from the deep south, he called it rock & roll. The term “rock ‘n’ roll” had been used since the early 1920s as a blues song lyric meaning sexual intercourse. Mintz tried to get airplay for R&B records, but the 6 radio stations in Cleveland played only music by white musicians.

Mintz finally met a young, brash disc jockey from WAKR-AM in Akron, Alan Freed. Freed was impressed with Mintz’s customers’ reaction to rock ‘n’ roll and began playing a rock ‘n’ roll record on his afternoon show as a novelty song sometime in early 1949.

Eventually, Freed made his way to the Cleveland market, where he hosted the first rock concert, which he called the Moondog Coronation Ball. Charges of cultural appropriation never caught up with Freed, but charges of bribery did.

From another Case Western Reserve article on the history of rock & roll:

[Freed] was fired from WABC on 21 Nov. 1959 when he refused to sign a FCC statement that he never received funds or gifts for playing records on the air. Freed’s refusal and his high profile made him the main scapegoat at the FTC congressional hearings concerning payola in the record industry. Freed’s radio career and concert business was over after the payola hearings.

I didn’t see any mention of Freed at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. But I did start my tour off right by digging into the R&B legends who rocked out before white people “invented” rock music. Putting on a pair of headphones, I got lost in the music of Muddy Waters, Lead Belly, and Robert “Faustian Bargain” Johnson.

Eventually, I caught up with Christina and Bridget, who were admiring a collection on rock & roll photography.

“Honey, let’s get a photo of you and Jerry,” Christina said. “It’ll be great doppelgänger content.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I mean, Situation Normal always needs great doppelgänger content, and some people—most notably, a Deadhead ice cream parlor owner and a ridiculously stoned poet I met in line at the Post Office—have said I look like Jerry Garcia. But with my beard trimmed down for summer and my hair short, I think I look more like Jerry’s strait-laced brother, Barry Garcia.

Of course, there were other photos and memorabilia at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame that had nothing to do with Jerry, or me. Case in point: Christina found an antique called a “cassette tape.”

Also in the antique department, I found something called a “floppy disk” that the PR team at Paisley Park sent to the press so that they could write the name of The Artist Formerly Known as Prince.

As a huge fan of The Doors and an amateur lizard king, I was thrilled to see Jim Morrison’s handwritten lyrics for Riders on the Storm.

Just as good, I was pleased as punch to see a letter from the Lizard King’s dad addressed to the Florida Probation and Parole Commission. While Rear Admiral Morrison denounced his son’s lewd behavior in Miami and admitted that he had had cautioned his son against pursuing a career in rock & roll, he nevertheless insisted that “Jim is fundamentally a responsible citizen.”

But the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame isn’t just photos and memorabilia, it also rocks—literally. On the second floor, there’s an exhibit called The Garage, where anyone can play in a rock & roll band.

I picked up a guitar and tried to learn how to play Sabotage by The Beastie Boys, but I was sabotaged by a lack of musical talent and poor hand-eye coordination. Thankfully, no photos of my attempt exist.

Meanwhile, Christina slapped the bass and looked so good doing it that an impromptu jam band asked her to join in on their Hotel California session. But she declined, telling them, “My husband hates the fucking Eagles, man.”

But it wasn’t all rock & roll at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, there was business too. Specifically, marketing and merchandizing, where the real money is spent and made. At an interactive display that allowed you to make your very own swag, I tried to create a sticker for a fictional group I’ve been trying to get off the ground called My Friend’s Shitty Band. Unfortunately, I’m an analog guy living in a digital world, so I couldn’t get the sticker machine to work. But Christina and Bridget managed to make a sticker for their make-believe band.

Thankfully, I had better luck with the computer guests are invited to use to submit their own nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. You only get one vote, and with mine I chose to right a historic wrong by nominating my favorite musician Warren Zevon. Chances are, if you know Warren’s work at all, you probably associate him with his only real hit, Werewolves of London. But the truth is every one of Zevon’s songs is a banger, and I celebrate his entire catalogue, from Desperados Under the Eaves to Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.

Bookstores, Vintage Shops, Little Italy

The next day brought rain. I tried to blame the visiting Seattle Mariners, but Bridget assured me that rain is a normal part of summer in the Midwest. Being from Los Angeles, where rain isn’t even a normal part of winter, I had my doubts. Still, the summer rain was a good excuse to grab some coffee and explore further Cleveland Heights, which it turns out, is pretty cool.

Our first stop was Loganberry Books. I love a good bookstore and I especially love to visit a local bookstore when I’m traveling because it gives you a sense of the place and the community.

I found the local author section, picked out a book about the mysterious deaths of lighthouse workers in the Great Lakes area, and dove in for some fascinating reading. Turns out, there are lot of accidental deaths in the lighthouse game, but there are quite a few murders too!

While I did my thing, Bridget made friends with an older gentlemen who told her about flying his first mission during the D-Day invasion of Europe. Talking to someone who made history is even better than reading history, if you ask me, and I think reading history is one of the best ways to spend your time.

Christina also enjoyed Loganberry Books, where we made several purchases. But what really caught her eye was the store’s signage.

We also visited a few vintage shops in Cleveland Heights. They had some great deals on stuff the previous owners had abandoned. In fact, the deals were so good that after hitting two vintage stores, we realized we needed to buy an additional suitcase to bring our treasures home.

“Should we buy this vintage luggage?” Christina asked. “It’s super cool.”

I looked at the suitcase. It looked like something Don Draper might’ve lost on his trip to Detroit to pitch Ford on his idea for a campaign about how real men don’t wear seatbelts because they drink martinis.

“It’s cool, but it might be a little past its prime. I worry it’ll bust open on the baggage carousel.”

“It’s vintage.”

“It doesn’t have any wheels. Are you prepared to carry it?”

“Oh my god, you’re right. I’ll order something online and have it sent to Bridget’s house.”

“Thank goodness for the ye olde internet.”

A vintage bowl smuggled back to Los Angeles in a modern suitcase.

Before we left Los Angeles, I asked a bunch of random people on Twitter what we should do in Cleveland. Everyone said we should get pastries in Little Italy. But when it came to picking a place, a minor flamewar broke out. The majority of Twitter randos pushed for Presti’s, while a vocal minority of Twitter randos insisted that Corbo’s had the best Italian pastries in town.

My initial instinct was to follow the majority. But then I remembered that democracy is on the ropes these days. Instead, I planned to order a cannoli from Presti’s and a cannoli from Corbo’s for an Italian-style Pepsi Challenge. But that plan went to shit as soon as we got to Presti’s.

“It’s closed!” Bridget said. “Why the fuck are they closed?”

Bridget never got an answer from Presti’s, but I got a really good cannoli from Corbo’s. Unfortunately, I ate the cannoli before Christina could take a picture. Still, I did find evidence that the rivalry between Corbo’s and Presti’s ain’t nothing to fuck with, according to Cleveland Magazine, which is the second best city magazine east of the Mississippi.

Look closely at the bottom of the sign and you’ll see that the cannoli critic at Cleveland Magazine gives the edge to Corbo’s.

Chagrin Falls, Killer Tacos

The next day, Bridget went to work, and we went to Chagrin Falls to have lunch with our friend Steve, who told us he literally has the key to city because he runs sound and lights for the annual Chagrin Falls Christmas celebration.

Chagrin Falls is famous for two things: a waterfall and the fact that it’s the hometown of Calvin from the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip. Our friend Joel actually made a great documentary aboutCalvin & Hobbes called Dear Mr. Watterson. When I asked Joel if he had any recommendations for places to eat in Chagrin Falls, he pointed out that he was a broke documentary filmmaker when he shot there. Then he said the local sub shop was run by nice people who kept him and his small crew fed.

Anyway, we saw the waterfall, but there was no sign of Calvin.

We also saw an awesome Star Wars display in the window of a local toy store. I don’t know how many Bothans died making that display, but their sacrifice was worth it.

When we got back to Cleveland Heights, Bridget suggested that we go to a local bar for Taco Tuesday. As a devout Taco Tuesday observer, I couldn’t resist, but what blew my mind was the fact that we walked there. Nobody walks in LA, at least that’s what the song says, right?

The tacos were solid, albeit in an avant-garde sort of way. Instead of soft tortillas or hard shells, they used folded Bao buns. Later, Bridget’s friend Kenny insisted that these weren’t tacos at all. “They’re just buns,” he said. But those buns were filled with carnitas and al pastor, so you tell me, Kenny!

Anyway, we were sitting outside eating our “tacos,” when Christina said something about how she’d “kill” to live in New York City. Obviously, Christina was kidding about the killing part. At least, it was obvious to me and Bridget that she was kidding.

“If anyone is doing any killing, it’s gonna be me,” a stranger said.

Now, there are a lot ways to enter a conversation, but threats of murder aren’t the way to go. Still, the stranger had our attention.

“I’ve killed dozens of people,” he said. “Ask me how I sleep?”

I didn’t want to ask him, but I was afraid not to ask.

“How do you sleep?”

“I sleep just fine. Why? Because it was war. It was them, or me. I’m Arthur, by the way.”

Arthur didn’t exactly scream, but he wasn’t using his inside voice either. During a very uncomfortable ten minutes, he explained that he had served twenty years in the military and that he had killed a lot of people in Iraq and Afghanistan, which tracked because we did spend the last twenty years at war in those two countries. Arthur also told us that he was shot three times during an extraction in Kuala Lumpur, which only sort of tracked because we aren’t at war in Malaysia, although we are engaged in a global war on terror, so there’s that.

Sensing my incredulity, Arthur rolled down his knee-high socks and showed us one of the scars. Then he told us that had “made it.” I thought that meant he had made it out of whatever killing fields he had seen, but Arthur elaborated on “making it” by telling us that he had earned his JD and LLM and that he now drove a Porsche.

Right on cue, a woman in the passenger seat of the Porsche said something to Arthur in a language I didn’t recognize. It was probably something like, “You’re frightening people again, Arthur, stop it.” But then Arthur said something back to the woman and explained that she was his friend from Poland. OK, so the mystery language was Polish. At least that much was clear.

“And this is my daughter,” Arthur said.

Introductions were made. Bridget told Arthur she had grown up in Cleveland, moved to LA, then moved back recently. Arthur approved of that. Christina said we were from Los Angeles, and Arthur gave us a funny look. Then Arthur’s daughter, who looked to be about twelve, asked her dad how much longer they were going to stay.

“Just a minute.”

As it turned out, Arthur’s definition of one minute was a little on the long side.

“I’ll tell you, my mother is rolling over in her grave with the Roe v. Wade thing.”

Jesus, I thought, who opens with war stories, then after a brief interlude into legal credentials and Porsche ownership, transitions to Roe v. Wade? Arthur, that’s who.

Not that we got a fix on Arthur’s position vis-a-vis women’s reproductive freedom. He was angry, that much was clear. He seemed to be pro life, but he was also furious at the Supreme Court.

“I know what my mother would tell me to do,” Arthur said with tears in his eyes.

“What would she say?” Christina asked.

“She’d tell me to do the right thing.”

We never found out what the right thing was because the owner of the bar walked over to Arthur and gave him a hug.

“Is he still a problem?” Arthur asked.

Arthur and the owner of the bar looked over my shoulder into the bar where, allegedly, there was a problem inside.

“Don’t worry about it, Arthur.”

“I’m not worried about him. Say the word and I’ll take care of him.”

Instead of saying the word, the owner of the bar said goodnight. Then Arthur got in his Porsche and drove off into the darkness.

Gordon Square Arts District

I’ve always believed art should be everywhere, but the powers that be in Cleveland, just like the people who run many other U.S. cities, seems to think that art needs to be confined to its very own district. I guess you can’t fight City Hall, but depending on where it’s located, you can decorate it.

Anyway, our first stop in Cleveland’s Gordon Square Arts District was a store called Océanne Studio and Boutique. To the casual observer, they sell jewelry, but Christina dug a little deeper and chose to visit this store because the jewelry is made by local artisans. Even better, Océanne partners with local nonprofits to help women who have escaped domestic violence and sex-trafficking learn a trade. Those artisans got a customer and Christina got some cool jewelry, which is what’s known in the arts game as a win-win.

Christina bought these snake earings, then she made this GIF!

I wanted to give Christina space to browse, so after a few minutes I left Océanne and walked down the street, where I found an establishment that was a little more tailored to my tastes.

I was tempted to order a donut, but then I remembered that I’m trying to cut back on fried food and sugar. Since donuts are fried and loaded with sugar, they’re what cardiologists call double trouble. But then I remembered the milkshake I had at Tommy’s. Suddenly, I was worried that I’d be a hypocrite, if I didn’t order a donut.

What to do, what to do?

I needed a workaround, a hack, a loophole. If only there was something special about the donuts here, something I could file under the headings of You Only Live Once (YOLO) and When in Cleveland (WiC).

I walked up to the bar to shoot my shot.

“Weird question for you, but by any chance did Rolling Stone, or any other music magazine, call your donuts the best donuts east of the Mississippi?”

To his credit, the dude behind the bar took my question in stride.

“I don’t know about Rolling Stone,” he said, “but people say our donuts are awesome.

People say? That kind of endorsement might’ve worked on me ten years ago, but these days I’ve got to make every treat count.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

“Coming up.”

I took my coffee to a corner table, where I found a free newspaper. Whenever I travel, I love to read the local newspaper, assuming one still exists, because you can learn a lot about the place you’re visiting. Here’s what I learned:

1. Ohio is gerrymandered as fuck.

2. The gerrymandering in Ohio is so bad that the maps they’re using in this year’s election aren’t even legal.

3. Frustration with the Republican-controlled legislature has gotten so bad that one Cleveland resident actually mailed packages filled with shit to every GOP member of the statehouse.

4. There’s a new Vietnamese fusion restaurant in town.

The news was depressing, but the art in the art’s district really brightened my mood. Even better, Christina took some great photos of Cleveland’s public art installations, so I can enjoy them whenever the news gets me down.

Cleveland is Magick

According to Wikipedia, the term “magic city” may refer to 17 different U.S. cities as well as Turin, Italy. But the fact that Cleveland isn’t on the list goes to show you that Wikipedia is bullshit. After all, only Cleveland is home to the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft & Magick.

Christina wanted to visit the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft & Magick because she practices witchcraft. I chose to accompany her because I’m a supportive husband, and let’s face it, only a fool messes with a witch.

Now, before I get into the witch and warlock stuff, I need to address something you may think is a typo. While every dictionary I’ve ever seen spells magic without the “k,” the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft & Magick added the “k” to distinguish their practice from the popular form of entertainment that involves card tricks, rabbits in hats, and sawing women in half. If you ask me, the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft & Magick needs to enlist the Paisley Park PR team to get the word out on the magic/magick distinction, or they could just a cast a spelling spell.

To visit the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft & Magick you need to make an appointment. When you arrive, Steven, the totally awesome Gen-X warlock who runs the museum, will give you a tour of the collection and tell you some amazing stories about the past, present, and future of the magick movement.

One of the first items Steven brought to our attention was an ordinary notebook that Ray Buckland, who is credited with introducing magick to America, purchased at a drugstore.

I didn’t think much of the notebook at first, but right away Christina recognized the writing in the upper lefthand corner.

“Is that Buckland’s Complete Book of Witchcraft?” she asked.

“Why yes it,” Steven said. “I like to imagine Ray, who was still working as a copywriter for British Airways at the time, but getting deeper and deeper into Magick, picking up this notebook at a drugstore. Did Ray know that this green notebook would change the world? Maybe. Maybe not.”

Suddenly, Steven had my attention. Ray’s story is that of a seeker and a popularizer. He didn’t invent magick, but he literally wrote the book on it, and all these years later, that book, Buckland’s Complete Book of Witchcraft, has sold millions of copies and influenced countless people, including a young goth teenager in Florida, who would eventually grow up, move to Los Angeles, and marry me.

“It all began in this ordinary notebook,” Steven said. “And it’s a good reminder to all of us that big things start out small.”

After telling us a little more about Ray, Steven explained his connection to the museum.

“Most of what you see here belonged to Ray,” Steven said. “When he died, Ray left it to me to carry on his work.”

By the time Ray passed away in 2017, magick was kind of a big deal, and thankfully, most jurisdictions had finally giving up on prosecuting witches and warlocks.

“One day, a warlock who knew Ray came into the museum,” Steven said. “He was giving me the eye. It was very uncomfortable. I felt as though he was asking, without words, who are you, Steven, and why do you have Ray’s stuff? Well, as I said, this made me very uncomfortable, and eventually he left.”

Then Steven pointed to a four-foot staff in a glass case.

“See that? It’s the Staff of Oberon. Very powerful stuff. Well, one day, the warlock who gave me the eye, sent a messenger. He walked through Cleveland carrying the Staff of Oberon. He walked down Broadview, right past the Subway and the abandoned Rite Aid. He walked right into the museum. He opened the door and there was a gust of wind.”

I looked at the front door. I could almost see the gust of wind announcing the entrance of messenger who carried the Staff of Oberon. Then another image popped into my head: a Subway sandwich artist making a foot-long tuna on wheat, eyes bugged out at the sight of a warlock getting medieval on the streets of Cleveland.

“That was my assistant’s first day,” Steven continued. “She freaked out. I freaked out a little too. It was wild. There was no denying the energy. But the messenger had brought the Staff of Oberon as a gift. I had passed the warlock’s test!”

After the story, Steven invited us to explore the museum on our own. Here are some of the displays that caught Christina’s eye.

Christina loved the museum. To my surprise, I loved it too. While I’m not exactly warlock material, I learned that the artifacts we saw are part of several overlapping practices that are the products of Pagan traditions filtered through various modern cultural movements. Sure, some people fear this stuff, and some of the people who really fear magick can be judgy assholes who are quick to persecute, and when shitty laws permit, prosecute. But those judgy assholes are wrong, and if they should find the courage to open their minds and challenge their assumptions, they really should book a trip to Cleveland and talk to Steven.

Lake View Cemetery

For our final tourist attraction, we visited Lake View Cemetery. Normally, I’m not a cemetery guy. Too morbid. But multiple Twitter randos, several Situation Normal readers, Bridget, and her friends Kenny and Anne all said Lake View Cemetery is a must.

“It’s really beautiful there,” Bridget said. “Sometimes I take Bird on walks in the cemetery. She loves walking there. Don’t you, Bird?”

At the mention of a walk in Lake View Cemetery, Bird perked up.

I had to admit that I was curious about Lake View. Few cemeteries have such great word of mouth. But I was also suspicious, so did some Googling.

“Holy shit,” I said. “James Garfield is buried there.”

As far as Presidents go, Garfield isn’t exactly a household name. But to be fair, Garfield only served six months before he was assassinated.

“We’ve gotta go,” Christina said. “The only Presidential shit we did on this trip was at Hertz, and you know how that went.”

And so we went to the Lake View Cemetery. We saw Garfield’s memorial, but for some reason we didn’t get a picture. Maybe we were too busy Googling James Garfield, who was a lawyer, a kickass mathematician, a Civil War general who fought at Shiloh, and the only sitting member of the U.S. House of Representatives to be elected President. Garfield also ushered in civil service reform—somewhat ironic because his assassin, the highly unstable Charles J. Guiteau, falsely believed that he had helped elect Garfield and was therefore owed a patronage job in the administration.

Photo by Ray Curtis. Used under license from Creative Commons.

Of course, you don’t have to be President to be buried at Lake View. Alan ‘rock & roll’ Freed is buried there. Harvey Pekar, creator of American Spleandor, is buried there too. Ditto for Eliot ‘Untouchable’ Ness. John ‘I’ve the Biggest Grave Marker in the Whole Cemetery’ Rockefeller is buried there along with many other Rockefellers.

But the grave I really wanted to see belonged to Ray Chapman. To be honest, I had never heard of Ray Chapman before I Googled Lake View Cemetery. When I saw that Chapman was only 29 when he died, I assumed he had been killed in a war. As it turned out, Chapman was a baseball player, and he holds the sad distinction of being the only person to die directly from injuries sustained in a Major League Baseball game.

First, a word about Chapman. He broke into the majors in 1912 with the Cleveland team, which was called The Naps in those days. For people butt-hurt about the Cleveland baseball club changing their name from The Indians to The Guardians, all I can say is this: times change, always have, always will.

By all accounts, Chapman was a good ballplayer. He led the American League in runs scored and walks in 1918. He was an excellent bunter. To this day, Chapman holds the single-season record for sacrifice hits (67) and remains sixth on the all time list for career sacrifices. In my opinion, the sacrifice is easily baseball’s most noble stat because it requires the hitter to give themselves up in order to advance a runner. Everyone loves home runs, but I’ve always admired the humble sacrifice. It’s the ultimate team player move.

Reading Chapman’s Wikipedia page, one biographical detail caught my eye. Ray Chapman was one of the few players Ty Cobb considered a friend. For those who don’t know, Ty Cobb was a major league asshole—maybe the biggest asshole ever to play baseball. Stories of Cobb’s assholery—from his habit of spearing opposing players with the spikes on his shoes, to the time he ran into the stands to beat up a fan—are legendary.

Knowing this, I wondered if Ray Chapman was also an asshole? Assholes do have a way of sticking together after all. But as I read about the circumstances surrounding Chapman’s death, I began to dream up a narrative where Ray was such a nice guy that everyone, including the game’s biggest asshole, liked him. There are people like that, people who are beloved by factions that pretty much hate everyone else. If you don’t believe me, go watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Oh, he’s very popular, Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads—they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.

Was Ray Chapman the Ferris Bueller of the American League? I don’t know, but if I ever meet a baseball historian, I’ll ask them that question. What I do know is that Ray Chapman’s tragic death ultimately proved to be a strange kind of sacrifice that protects baseball players to this day. Here’s what happened.

On August 16, 1920, Chapman was struck in the head and killed by a pitch thrown by Carl Mays during a game against the New York Yankees at the Polo Grounds. In those days, players didn’t wear batting helmets. It was also standard practice for pitchers to scuff up the ball with dirt, sandpaper, spit, licorice, and tobacco juice. The idea was to give the ball extra movement and make it harder for batters to see. Making matters worse, it was common to use the same ball throughout the game back then, meaning that the ball became even more dangerous and difficult to see as the game progressed.

If this is starting to sound like the perfect storm, consider two additional facts. It was late in the day, and there were long shadows sweeping across the Polo Grounds. On the mound, right-hander Carl Mays used a submarine delivery that was especially hard to see, let alone hit, for right-handers like Chapman.

According to eyewitness accounts, Chapman didn’t react to the pitch that struck him in the head. In all likelihood, he never saw the pitch that killed him.

The sound of the ball striking Chapman’s skull sounded like a bat striking a ball. We know this because Mays actually fielded the ball and threw it to first base.

Seeing blood coming from Chapman’s head, the home plate umpire screamed for a doctor. Players from both teams gathered around Chapman, who tried to walk before his knees gave out and he fell to the ground.

One of the last things Chapman said is revealing of his character, and it’s what makes me think he was the Ferris Bueller of the American League.

“I’m all right,” he said. “Tell Mays not to worry.”

Not many batters in that situation would think about the feelings of the pitcher.

Chapman was rushed to a nearby hospital, but he died about twelve hours later. Thousands of mourners attended his funeral at Lake View Cemetery.

Chapman’s teammates wore black arm bands in memory of their fallen shortstop for the remainder of the season. The Indians won the World Series later that year. They dedicated their victory to Chapman.

In an interview a few months after Chapman’s death, pitcher Carl Mays expressed regret for Chapman’s death, but said he didn’t feel guilty because he didn’t throw at Chapman on purpose. Nevertheless, many players blamed Mays for Chapman’s death, and Ty Cobb went so far as to say that someone ought to throw a pitch at Mays’ head. After he retired from professional baseball, Mays opened a baseball school. In an interview before his death, Mays said he enjoyed working with young pitchers, but that he regarded his most important task as teaching players how to play the game safely.

Major League Baseball eventually got around to requiring hitters to wear batting helmets—thirty years after Chapman’s death. It’s easy to be cynical about Major League Baseball’s inexcusably slow response to protect players. But I can’t help but wonder what one of the game’s leaders in sacrifice hits would make of the fact that his death, ultimately, helped safeguard everyone who ever set foot on a baseball diamond, including this writer, whose poor eyesight contributed to the fact that he led the Sherman Oaks Little League in hit by pitch during the 1980s.

“See if you can find Ray Chapman’s grave on the map,” I told Christina as we drove around Lake View. “I want to pay my respects.”

“I don’t need the map,” she said.

“Really? This place is huge.”

“Ray Chapman’s grave is right there.”

“What the what? How did you…”

“Magick,” Christina said.

“Witch.”

To this day, baseball fans who never saw Ray Chapman play, leave baseballs, hats, and cards out of respect.

Thank you for a great trip, Cleveland!

Stick around and chat!

I love hearing from readers like you because it makes writing Situation Normal so much fun! If you enjoyed this story, please let me know by leaving a comment below. Or, if you’re the type of person who likes a prompt, consider the following questions:

1. Have you been to Cleveland? What were your highlights?

2. What artist would you like to nominate to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame?

3. Where can I get the best milkshake west of the Mississippi?

4. Do you believe in Magick?

5. Where’s the last place you went on vacation?

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