Tito was a true guard of the Guardians
Tito never used the word retire.
He never made a big announcement.
He never wanted it to be about him.
It was always about the players. And the game.
The great game of baseball.
Tito made it even greater.
Guardians manager Terry Francona’s career won’t be marked by a World Series victory for us. But Tito gave so much to this city and this ball club and to all its fans.
How do you thank the winningest manager in club history?
We tried.
Even though he resisted saying goodbye, the handwriting was on the baseball when he told us, “I don't want to have the last month be a sendoff or a pity party because that's not how I feel. But it's time and my body is telling me that, my head is telling me that and I don't want to stay on for the wrong reasons. I hope I have too much respect for not just the game, but for this organization to do that.”
Next stop?
Cooperstown.
But first, a hospital.
Tito is only 64, but he’s battling stomach problems, blood clots, hip issues, a staph infection in his foot, a hernia and an upcoming shoulder replacement.
His body is falling apart. No way could it take 162 more games next year.
He gave us enough. He made the corner of Carnegie and Ontario a bit more sacred. He gave us hope and took us to the edge of a World Series victory. He even stayed calm when pitcher Trevor Bauer was bleeding on the mound in Game 3 back in 2016, dripping blood from an earlier drone injury.
Tito gave us 22 wins in a row. The longest winning streak in the American League and second longest in Major League Baseball.
He helped us release Wahoo and make a smooth transition from the Indians to the Guardians.
He was a guardian of the sport, a man who chewed Dubble Bubble by the bucket and wore the same navy pullover over and over and over. And the scooter. That scooter belongs in the Smithsonian. He rode it to every home game from his apartment near Progressive Field.
And how could you not smile watching his press conference after a slide into second turned into a brawl on the base between our beloved batter José Ramírez and Chicago Cubs second baseman Tim Anderson. Fists went flying, then Bam! Anderson was on the ground.
Announcer Tom Hamilton “Hammy” didn’t miss a beat and called it like a boxing match: “Down goes Anderson! Down goes Anderson!” It will go down in history as one of the greatest baseball calls.
During the post-game press conference, one reporter asked Tito, “What did you think of Jose’s left hook?”
Tito corrected him. “Right hook.”
“It’s not funny,” Tito said, pausing to fight a smile, “but I’m listing to Hammy, it’s hard not to chuckle. I mean, again, it’s not funny, but boys will be boys.”
It was hilarious to fans, especially the ones that wore T-shirts that read, “Down goes Anderson!” to the next game.
The year of the winning streak took us on a wild ride. I took my oldest sister to Game 21. It was her 67th birthday. I feared it might be her last. I made a big sign that read, “My sister is 67 today…make her feel 21 again.” The team did with victory 21.
She was staying with me as she recovered from cancer surgery at the Cleveland Clinic. As soon as she felt well enough, I took her to a game. Baseball helped healed her.
When she returned home to Indiana, I made her a photo album of all the reasons she should move to Cleveland. Most of them were to watch the Indians, or as we called them back then, our WINdians. She ended up moving to Cleveland.
She couldn’t go to Tito’s last game, but we savored his best moments.
I went with my youngest sister. The game was pure magic. We stood in the bleachers near the Jumbotron cheering as Tito waved to thank us and we cheered to thank him, some 20,000 of us wearing bright red Thank You, TITO shirts.
Then he waved his cap in front of the dugout, blessing his ball team one last time. They blessed him back, beating the Cincinnati Reds 4-3.
On the way out, the staff gave us each a gift. A signed photograph of Tito waving goodbye, thanking us.
I would have cried, but you can’t.
There’s no crying in baseball.
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