It was difficult for anyone from out of town to understand the hawker's attitude, but the city of Cleveland knew how he felt.
The elderly chambermaid in the Hotel Cleveland said, "Oh, it's too bad they couldn't have won today so there'd be a game tomorrow. So many folks had planned to go on Sunday."
The room clerks at the Cleveland and the Hollenden and the Manger and the other hotels knew how he felt. Only the day before, on Friday, their lobbies had been swollen with angry, shouting people, all of them fighting to get a room, any room, any size, any price. Now, on Saturday, the hotels were suddenly emptying, guests leaving their hard-won rooms like feeding birds startled from a lawn. And Sunday, the big day, had not even come.
Everybody was leaving Cleveland. The railroad terminal was packed, long lines of people radiating from the semicircular Pullman counter. Airline offices were jammed, the clerks busy phoning back and forth from one line to another, looking for space. The Giants dressed hurriedly and left Cleveland Airport by plane less than three hours after the game. Everybody was leaving Cleveland.
The hawker with his dollar dolls, the room clerk with his empty rooms, the chambermaid with her disappointed friends, watched them go. They were Cleveland after the fourth game of the World Series. It was all over, everything was over, and the picnic was not supposed to be till Sunday.
Thank you very much
In their dressing room in Cleveland's Municipal Stadium after the final game, the New York Giants were mildly ecstatic. Not quite so ecstatic, perhaps, as the photographers endeavored to make them, but in reasonably good cheer. It was a happy time, people laughing, shouting, cheering, congratulating one another.
A few hundred feet to the south, in another part of the forest, Al Lopez, manager of the Cleveland Indians, sat quietly behind his desk in the small, bare, white room that serves as his office. A dozen or so reporters filed into the room and stood awkwardly around the desk. Those who knew Lopez well shook hands with him and murmured, "Sorry, Al," or, "Too bad, Al," or, "Tough, Al. I'm sorry." Lopez, his face heavy with weariness and defeat, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, answered, "Thank you, Dick. Thanks. Thank you. Thank you, Lou."
It was very quiet. No one seemed to know what to say. Someone asked him about the turning point of the Series. Lopez shrugged his shoulders.
Other questions were put, quiet questions, gentle questions. Lopez answered them, though he didn't seem to want to. He was very patient, very quiet, very tired, but very patient.