What the two teams had in common was my favorite player, Rocky Colavito, who broke in with the Tribe in 1955, was traded to the Tigers the day before the 1960 season started, then returned to Cleveland in 1965. The Rock finished his career 40 years ago next summer with the New York Yankees, but that's a different story.

Now what the two teams have in common is that they have really disappointed me in two consecutive years in my adult life. I had purchased two standing room only tickets for what would have been the first game of the World Series tonight at Jacobs Field.

Instead, I guess I'll clean the basement.

No Red Sox cheering from me. They spoiled the party by eliminating the Indians Sunday night.

My dad took us to Cleveland twice to see Indians games, in 1965 and 1966. What a thrill it was to drive along Lake Erie and see Municipal Stadium rise up to greet us. Chief Wahoo, the team's grinning mascot, was perched high above the main entrance where we bought our tickets. I remember how big the stadium was, and the fireworks shot from the scoreboard following every home run by the Indians. My mother put newspaper clippings from the games into a scrapbook for me.

I nagged my father into stopping for gas at one of the Sunoco stations offering a free Indians glass with a fill-up. Surely, they would offer us one with The Rock on it. No such luck. The attendant even allowed us into the back room to look through several boxes, but all we could come up with were plastic tributes to Chuck Hinton and Fred Whitfield.

One year my Uncle Walt gave me a breathtaking Christmas present: a baseball personally signed by each member of the team. He worked for Hickok, the Rochester company that sponsored the Pro Athlete of the Year award, and he knew people who worked for many of the major sporting goods companies.

I collected 8x10 black and white glossies of all the Cleveland players as well as yearbooks, buttons and a pennant. After Colavito was traded away in 1967, my fondness for the Indians endured but at a much less frequent level. But when the time came for my own two kids to see their first major league baseball game, it seemed the Indians were the "natural" choice.

June 4, 1995: It was a perfect, sunny Sunday afternoon. Haunted by their years of futility, the Indians fell behind early by an 8-0 score to pitcher David Cone and the Toronto Blue Jays. But in an amazing turn of events, Cleveland's Paul Sorrento homered with two outs in the bottom of the ninth to win the game. The scoreboard exploded with fireworks to signal the win, just like at the old stadium.

"I haven't seen an Indians game in almost 20 years," I shouted with joy to an equally-excited usher as the crowd went wild. "You'll have to do better than this!"

Until last week, I thought they had done just that.