Game Seven of the World Series is more myth than reality. I would estimate that my friends and I, in games of wiffleball or whatever in our parents’ backyards on Cleveland’s suburban west side, probably played in "Game Seven of the World Series" maybe fifty more times than the event has taken place in the history of Major League Baseball. (For the record, this year’s is just the thirty-seventh.)
Our baseball coverage may not have a deep bench, but what we've got can go the distance. Digging around in the [...]
What’s in a name? In my neighborhood, confusion. Countless lifelong Greater Clevelanders have asked me, “So what part of town do you live in?” and I always begin my answer, “Well, the city calls it ‘Brooklyn Centre,’ but...”
Belt Publishing’s anthologies, written by and for Rust Belt communities, include compilations from Akron, Buffalo, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Dayton, Detroit, Flint, Pittsburgh, and [...]
I wasn’t having any of it. My mother brought my older sister and me to Chapel Hill Mall each year to visit with Archie the Talking Snowman. But I wasn’t fooled. Snowmen don’t talk, and I didn’t trust the disembodied voice that floated from above.
At the intersection of State and Washington Streets in the Warehouse District of downtown Peoria, a city of about 116,000 that sits halfway between Chicago and St. Louis on the Illinois River, stands a nine-foot-tall bronze likeness of the city’s most infamous native son.
When the All America Football Conference launched in 1945 it sought well-heeled owners to go head-to-head with the more established NFL. Mickey McBride, owner of Cleveland’s AAFC franchise, tabbed Paul Brown to be its head coach.
On March 4, 1908, flames tore through the Lake View School building in Collinwood, Ohio, trapping many of the roughly 350 people in it. 172 children, two teachers, and one rescuer died.
To visit Slavic Village, preferably wait until a bitterly cold evening in February, and in the dark and the snow, take the I-77 North exit for Pershing Avenue. Turn west, and as the road becomes a dead-end, ignore the sparseness of the streetlights and the horrifying industrial shapes rearing up from the barbed-wire fences on either side of you.
This is the book I wish existed when I moved to Buffalo. It’s a book for long-time residents who want to spend a few minutes or an afternoon thinking about their city. It’s for those who’ve moved away but still feel nostalgic when they get a whiff of Cheerios or see a towering elm or watch the Bills fumble in the end zone.
As a grad student in ecology, I spent a lot of time in the woods with a camera for company. I was living in upstate New York, studying how plants recolonize forests growing up on old fields, and why some return faster than others.
On a balmy Friday afternoon, I’m nervously careening through downtown Akron without my GPS, trying to prove I haven’t lost my touch since leaving the “330.”