The Plain Dealer’s front page coverage was extensive, spanning six columns with two headline decks, a format typically used for significant news stories and major events.

Take me out to the riot

Let us drink, drink, drink, for the home team,

If they don’t win, we’re to blame.

For it’s beer in a cup, at 10 cents a pop

At the old ball game.

CLEVELAND — Stories abounded last week here and elsewhere marking Tuesday’s 50th anniversary of the memorable 10-cent Beer Night at Municipal Stadium. Some of them cranked out the old saw speculating that, while the official attendance had been 25,134, in the retelling, the number of people who claimed they were there that night would total many times that.

Well, I was there, and I’ve got the bylines to prove it.

For some time, I had the uncanny ability to attend sports events that ended up having quite odd outcomes.

I happened to be at the Cleveland Browns Stadium during the incident famously known as “Bottlegate,” which took place on December 16, 2001, during a match against the Jacksonville Jaguars. That day, Cleveland fans famously threw a fit, launching plastic bottles at the officials and everyone nearby, resulting in a 20-minute delay with just about 40 seconds of the game left to play. expressing their disappointment.

I was also present at the old Municipal Stadium shortly before the notorious Beer Night. It was a regular game against Kansas City, but The Great Wallenda decided to walk a tightrope set up high above the infield before the game started. The umpires, perhaps jokingly, declared a new rule stating that if a ball hit the wire, it would count as a ground rule double. Remarkably, Vada Pinson hit the wire with what seemed like a normal infield pop-up, turning it into a double.

At another game, a vocal fan teased Albert Belle about his drinking issues with a shout, “Keg party at my house, Joey!” In response, Belle threw a baseball hitting the fan squarely in the chest, leaving an imprint of the ball’s stitches on him. Although I did not witness it firsthand, I wrote about the incident, commending Belle for his precision and hinting that the fan perhaps deserved it.

Returning to the eventful Beer Night – the scene was already set for chaos.

Only a week prior, the Cleveland Indians had clashed with Manager Billy Martin and his Texas Rangers in a fiery encounter in Texas. The renowned sports talk show host Pete Franklin had been stirring excitement for the Rangers’ upcoming visit to Cleveland. Although I worked as a sportswriter for the Lake County News-Herald, that night I was simply a fan, there with my brother and a college friend, ready to sip some lackluster 3.2% beer and watch the unfolding drama.

As expected by anyone familiar with the volatile combination of copious amounts of alcohol and intense sports rivalry, the result was utter chaos.

In the early stages, spectators behind the Rangers’ third-base dugout exchanged what seemed to be friendly jeers with Martin and his players. From my spot in the first row of the upper deck along the first-base line, the exchanges appeared harmless. At one point, Martin humorously waved a white towel as if to surrender.

Initially, the crowd was spirited yet manageable, but as more alcohol was consumed, the atmosphere deteriorated.

A woman unexpectedly kissed the home plate umpire, Nestor Chylak. Streakers appeared, and several attendees invaded the playing field, prompting security to intervene. Spectators began to hurl hot dogs and beer at the players.

By the middle innings, the scene near the Rangers’ dugout became hostile. People climbed onto the dugout roof, banging on it furiously, which angered Manager Martin. In a heated moment, he gathered gravel from the warning track and threw it at the fans behind the dugout, escalating the unrest.

The chaos intensified as fans started to throw objects other than food. I saw a man rush by with a disused beer bottle wedged in twin paper cups, hurling it a significant distance onto the playing field.

He went back for more ammo and the next time he came down, I threw out my arm to stop him and hit him in the chest. He was a big guy, and as he looked blearily at me, I thought the next thing to go over the side might be me. But he just headed a couple of sections away and threw more missiles toward the field.

I’ve seen it written that the Indians were charging toward a game-winning rally at the end. But from my memory, the Rangers had the game under control heading into the bottom of the ninth inning with a 5-3 lead, and it was the crazies who kick-started the comeback.

As bottles, chairs and anything else the fans could get their hands on rained down on the field, the Rangers pitcher got understandably rattled and the Indians tied the game at 5-5, before Chylak, the umpire crew chief, rightfully ended it with a forfeit.

I had my press pass with me, and as it became clear that things were going to end badly, I went over to the press box and offered to help Hank Kozloski, who was covering the game for the News-Herald. So I wound up doing stories from the umpires’ room and the visiting clubhouse. I saw longtime Plain Dealer baseball writer Paul Hoynes in there, then working for the Painesville Telegraph, who also started the night as a fan but quickly kicked into work mode, too.

I’ll never forget Chylak, a decorated veteran of the Battle of the Bulge, raging as blood ran down his temple from where he had been hit by a chair: “Those people were animals!” he said. “The last time I saw animals like that was in the zoo! The zoo!”

Martin, in the post-game locker room, was in barely controlled fury, describing why he grabbed a bat and led his team out to rescue his right fielder, Jeff Burroughs, who was being surrounded by fans:

“You’re damn right I thought somebody was going to be very badly hurt, that’s why we went out after Jeff.”

Then, as I wrote for the next day’s paper, Martin poured himself a mug of beer and studied the innocent-looking white foam that started it all: “It’s a sad day when a bunch of drunks can run on the field and make a team win or lose,” he said. “It looks like the fans just can’t handle beer night. It’s a real shame.”

A unique story that I haven’t encountered elsewhere is told by former Indians catcher Duke Sims, who recounted an evening out with his Texas teammates, Joe Lovitto and Rich Billings. They ventured into town the previous night.

During their exploration, they encountered a young woman who professed to be a witch and foretold their deaths the next night.

“We all laughed at her,” recounted a perturbed Lovitto after the eventful night. “But after tonight, maybe I’ll take people more seriously if they tell me they’re a witch. It seems she was somewhat right, wasn’t she?”

Ted Diadiun is part of the editorial board at cleveland.com and The Plain Dealer.

To reach Ted Diadiun: tdiadiun@cleveland.com

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