The phone rang just past noon. Mom said Roger was on the line.

“Did you hear what Gabe Paul just said on WFUN?” Rog said. “He said the Indians might set a record for the biggest night-game crowd in baseball history tonight.

“Donnie, we gotta go!”

It was a hot summer day, a Thursday, to be exact — 31 years ago last Sunday — July 3, 1980, and the hated Yankees were in town.

For two teenagers who had spent countless days and nights at Cleveland Stadium with between 3,000 and 5,000 of our closest friends, we knew this was a golden opportunity.

With the Indians’ present at that point being as it was all through our childhood — awful — Roger Wesely and myself knew all about their past.

Which meant we knew the largest crowd to ever watch a night game in Major League Baseball history were the 78,382 Indians fans who filled Cleveland Stadium on Aug. 20, 1948 to watch 42-year-old rookie Satchel Paige shutout the Chicago White Sox.

The Future Hall of Famer fired a three-hit shutout that night as the eventual World Series champion Indians edged the White Sox, 1-0.

We had to go.

We had to be part of this.



Numbers game

Now, some 32 years later, that night-game record of 78,382 was in jeopardy. In fact, Indians president Gabe Paul’s voice said through the WFUN airwaves, “We are confident we can break our own major-league record tonight.”

The Bronx Bombers came to town for a four-game weekend series leading the American League East with a 49-25 record, with the Indians a dozen games back at 35-37. Still, a near-.500 record around the nation’s birthday was something Roger, myself and other youngsters of our era would celebrate.

I picked Roger up at his house on Kathleen Drive and we headed west in my 1977 Thunderbird, which we had “decorated” for the occasion.

We had taped white poster-board placards with “Yankees suck!” in the side and back windows. We received a ton of honks, thumbs up and fist pumps, then spotted a bed sheet echoing the exact same sentiments hanging from a bridge just past Madison on Interstate 90.

The signs lasted until we were pulled over by a state trooper near Mentor.

“Listen, fellas,” he said with a wry smile. “I couldn’t agree more about what you’re expressing. In fact, I know almost everyone does.

“But you’re a safety hazard with the signs blocking your vision out the windows, so take them down and you’ll be on your way, OK?”

Of course, we complied, albeit reluctantly, and prepared to get back in the car.

“Oh, one more thing,” the trooper said. “Bring home a victory, please.”



In the air

We arrived at the monstrous Stadium more than two hours before the first pitch, but we could tell it was going to be a festive night. The Muni lot was almost full as we pulled in and found a parking spot, miles from the ballpark.

However, the walk gave us an opportunity to interact with the legions of fellow Tribe fans that were on hand to “welcome” the hated squad from Gotham, a team that included future Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson batting cleanup and former Indian Graig Nettles hitting third and playing third base.

Our walk to the ballpark was a blast. We played catch with a bunch of fellow fans, even threw a football around for a bit and, best of all, heckled the few brave souls who dared don Yankee caps.

Of course, what exactly we were heckling them about has been lost to the passing years. I mean, what can you say about a franchise that is the best in the history of professional sports, the same one that had dominated our Wahoos for decades and was 12 games in front in the current standings?

But none of that mattered. All that mattered is that we hated everything the Yankees represented — massive free-agent spending, their Nazi-like logo and yes, in full disclosure mode, the fact their team won and ours did not.

And this night was our night. It was out night to show up en masse, as had never been done at night in the history of game before, and stick it to the (money)-stuffed shirts from New York.



But...

Problem was, the Wahoos were sending Wayne Garland to the bump that night. Garland (2-1) would be facing seven-game winner Tom Underwood.

Garland, a member of the Indians for only four seasons at that point, had already become what Northeast Ohioans had come to expect — a failed attempt at reaching for the brass ring.

After posting a 2-5 record with a 3.71 ERA for Baltimore in 1975, he 6-foot, 195-pound right-hander had taken the American League by storm the following summer.

In the Bicentennial Year, the 26-year-old Garland went 20-7 with a 2.67 ERA for the Orioles.

Incredibly, Paul had shocked the baseball world by signing him as a free agent in November, inking the hurler to an unheard of 10-year contract.

After a workhorse season in his first season as an Indian in 1977 (13-19, 3.60), The Cleveland Effect finally overtook him in 1978 as he suffered a shoulder injury, which required rotator-cuff surgery.

The first huge free-agent signee of our childhood by our Tribe posted numbers of 2-3, 7.89 in 1978 and 4-10, 5.23 in 1979 as he tried to come back from the surgery.

In that summer of 1980, my last as a high school kid, Garland seemed to be finding a middle ground. He took a 2-1 record and a 3.86 ERA into the game, having faced the Yankees in his previous start five days previous, earning a no-decision in an 11-10 loss at Yankee Stadium. Still, Garland’s numbers against New York in that game — five innings, three hits, four earned runs, two strikeouts and four walks — didn’t

exactly have us feeling confident as we entered Gate A of the monolithic Depression-era Stadium.



Mob scene

The largest crowd Roger and I had been part of for a Tribe game was the more than 61,000 that had shown up for Opening Day earlier that season. A big crowd, certainly, but that meant there were still 25,000 less than the largest baseball crowd at the big ballpark — the 86,288 that filled it to the gills to see Bob Feller try to close out the 1948 World Series against the Boston Braves in Game 6.

But this was a different animal from the 61,000-plus we were part of some three months previous.

We couldn’t move. No one could. The lines for our $3 general admission tickets seemed to stretch all the way back to Ashtabula County.

Mindful that we had arrived more than two hours before gametime, we climbed to the upper deck in left field and as we stepped through the walkway, we knew we were in trouble — there were no seats to be found, save for the three sections in the bleachers in center field that were kept roped off for the batter’s eye. The blue pads hung on the outfield fence were being removed so those who being herded into the auxiliary bleachers (something else we had never seen happen for a baseball game there) could see the action.

Finally, I spotted a couple of empty seats near the top row toward the very end of the upper deck. We double-timed it up the steep, beer (I think)-stained concrete steps to reach said row, and pleaded with several who were seated to move a seat over so we could sit next to each other.

Lo and behold, who did we find sitting directly in front of us one row below?

Two more guys from Jefferson — Bob Carlson and Dave Wilson.

Considering the size of the mob (more on that in a bit), the odds of the four of us sitting three feet from each other had to be incalculable.



Party atmosphere

There had never been a night baseball crowd like this in our lifetimes, especially in Cleveland. People brought air horns, snare drums, signs and were revved up. Two years before, Roger and I had been part of a crowd of 80,000 for a Browns game against the equally despised Steelers, a game that saw Browns quarterback Brian Sipe threw five touchdown passes — and lose, 51-35.

This setting was akin to that. It was a football crowd at a baseball game.

Ironically, the deep-throated collective roar that rumbled through the cavernous, jam-packed ballpark just before first pitch matched what we had scribbled on poster board and taped to the windows of my T-Bird — “Yan-kees suck!” — stretched to three syllables for effect, could have been heard in Canada, of that I have no doubt.

When we got bored with that, we turned on Jackson, at the top of his spoiled-brat, HOF powers at the time.

“Reg-gie sucks!” — again stretched to three syllables for effect — roared throughout the 49-year-old Stadium.

Always one to recognize the grand stage, Jackson, running a few last-minute wind sprints to get loose down the left-field line, doffed his cap and smiled.

It would be the last smile by a New Yorker on that glorious evening.



The game

Underwood and Garland put up matching goose eggs through two frames and after Garland made it three straight scoreless innings, the crowd began to get antsy.

The Indians weren’t going to fall on their faces, again, were they? Not on this night, right?

Nope.

A three-run third and a matching set in the fourth sent Underwood to the showers in favor of Tim Lollar and the rest of the contest was without question the most glorious shared-experience night Roger and I had witnessed in our lifetimes.

We stood, we stomped, we high-fived with so many it’s amazing either of us would ever be able to pick up a ball again. We taunted the Yankees, the thunderous chants becoming more and more, um, colorful as the contest went on.

Eventual American League Rookie of the Year Joe Charboneau, whom we had watched slug a home run in his first home game as part of the 61,753 who had shown up on Opening Day on April 19 to see the Wahoos cage the Toronto Blue Jays, 8-1, had three hits, raising his average to .307, and four RBI. Jorge Orta had two hits and scored twice, catcher Bo Diaz had two RBI and the Tribe’s No. 3 hitter, a first baseman named Mike Hargrove, also had a knock.

But the real story was Garland, who for one stupendous night, sprinkled his surgically repaired pitching shoulder with fairy dust.

He twirled a two-hit shutout (harmless singles by Joe Lefebvre and, of course, Jackson, accounting for the lone Yankee hits) — even besting the effort of Hall of Famer Paige on the night he drew more than 78,000 to the same ballpark 32 years earlier — striking out five and walking three to improve to 3-1, 3.26 on the season.

Problem was, Garland was almost too good that night, for the game didn’t last nearly as long as we would have wanted, taking only 149 minutes to complete, though fittingly, Jackson hit into game-ending double play when Tribe second baseman Jerry Dybzinski — “The Kid from Collinwood” — fielded his line-shot grounder, stepped on second and fired to Hargrove at first.



Crowded house

In the bottom of the seventh, the announcement we had been waiting for — the attendance — was made.

As big a crowd as it was, it wasn’t the record turnout we all had been hoping for.

There were 73,096 fans at Cleveland Stadium that night, the largest crowd in baseball since the Indians drew more than 74,420 on Opening Day, Saturday, April 7, 1973 to see the Indians edge Detroit Tigers, 2-1.

Turns out, Paul admitted he had made a mistake with his afternoon proclamation of hoping to set a night-game attendance record.

“I blew it,” he said. “I’m willing to bet by me saying we could approach a crowd of more than 80,000 that night it scared off so many people who didn’t want to fight through that kind of crowd.

“It was a great night to be a Cleveland Indians fan, but it’s kind of disappointing.”

In a way, though, it was fitting. As Cleveland fans, we weren’t frontrunners who rooted for the Browns during football season, then never took our Indians caps or Cavaliers hoodies out of the closet during baseball and basketball seasons.

We were used to disappointment, after all. It was pretty much part of our DNA.

But these were our teams, win or (more often than not) lose.

And that night, some 31 years, a week and a day ago, was truly a night to remember, record or not.

Because 73,096 Northeast Ohioans had turned out — for a baseball game in support of a team that was already a dozen games out of first place and, while also more than three decades removed from its last championship season, hadn’t really sniffed contention since the summer of 1959.

And four guys from a little village of just more than 3,000 had somehow wound up literally just a few feet apart — with Roger and Bob living literally across the street from one another on Kathleen Drive, completely by chance, and experienced it together.

To us, especially Roger and myself, who had sat through so many games in that old ballpark together, it was one of countless memories that will be with us for our lifetimes.

McCormack is the sports editor of the Star Beacon. Reach him at donmac@suite224.net.