I am sick to death of the 1995 Cleveland Indians.
That year was a wonderful moment in the history of my beloved franchise, the return from the wilderness after decades of aimless wandering. The heroes of my childhood, from Jim Thome to Manny Ramirez, Carlos Baerga and Omar Vizquel to even my twisted love of Albert Belle, they were a hurricane. A horrifying force of nature that terrorized pitching staffs across the league, it took a tri-bladed buzzsaw to fell them in the World Series.