The father, heading west on I-80, saw the distinctly Pennsylvanian city names pass in a blur as the exit numbers grew smaller: Exit 298, Scotrun … Exit 242, Miffinville … Exit 212 B, Williamsport … Exit 178 Lock Haven …
The son, heading east on the same Interstate, saw the same kinds of town names as the exit numbers grew larger: Exit 4A, Beaver Valley … Exit 24, Grove City … Exit 60, Shippenville … Exit 97, DuBois/Brockway …
As the distance between them grew smaller their hearts swelled greater, the same thoughts filling their souls, recognizing how lucky they were about to be to steal a half-hour together at a time when so many parents and children are forced to settle for the telephone, or maybe a FaceTime chat, or a wave from the end of a driveway to front porch.
“This tradition we have, that’s special,” said Mike Chernoff, who is the general manager of the Cleveland Indians. “But being able to actually see each other during a time like this … that’s what’s really amazing.”
“The only downside,” said Mark Chernoff, who is a Senior VP for Entercom, and oversees WFAN radio, “was knowing we’d both want to stay much longer.”
This would have to do. And this would be perfect. Mike was 6 years old when he and his old man began to play catch regularly. Fall came, and then winter, and they decided to keep playing catch so Mike could keep his arm loose, and also because they just loved doing it. In those days, it was easy to have a catch every day if they wanted, rain or shine, snow or chill.
Later, Mike went to Princeton to play shortstop and the daily routine was no longer possible, but Mark and Mike decided to make a pact: no matter what, at least once a month, they would find each other and throw a ball around. Sometimes Mark would add a few ground balls into the mix.
But every month – without fail – they would have a catch.
“It’s a baseball thing, right?” Mike laughs. “You have to respect the streak.”
How to do that now, though? The Chernoffs had already pulled a fast one the last time around, while the coronavirus was in its incubatory phase as a national menace, but gathering steam. Mark was able to finagle a quick trip west, to Goodyear, Ariz., where the Indians train in the spring.
“It’s leap year,” Mark says. “So we took advantage of that.”
They had a catch on Saturday, Feb. 29 and then again on Sunday, March 1. Then Mark flew back home, Mike returned to the business of crafting Cleveland’s roster, and both watched as the world began spinning off its axis, slowly at first, then all at once. They did as families do: congregated at home, communicated on the phone and on Zoom, busied themselves with work, considered themselves fortunate to still be among the shrinking American workforce.
Next thing they knew, April was almost done.
So Wednesday, Mark and his wife, Sally, gassed up their car and headed west. Mike traveled east solo, because he has three kids at home 9 and younger, so his wife Sarah stayed behind in Northeast Ohio with them. Mark had picked out a place in the middle of Pennsylvania, not far from State College, where it would be a 3 ½-hour ride for both.
Exit 147. PA-144. Snow Shoe.
There was a Sunoco station just off the exit. They parked their cars. They both brought mitts. They were properly distanced, of course: 60 feet 6 inches is more than enough. And for 30 minutes they had their catch. With two days to spare.
“We thought about making it late in the day Thursday,” Mike says. “This way we could’ve met at 11:45 at night on April 30th, and then played catch until around 12:15 on May 1st.”
He laughs.
“That might’ve been a little crazy,” he says.
It wouldn’t have been the first time they’ve had to improvise. You don’t achieve the levels of professional success the Chernoffs have without putting in long hours at the office, and time vanishes quickly. There was one time a few years back when the month was almost out and Mark had a business trip; he purposefully built an itinerary with a brief layover in Cleveland and they had their catch in a parking lot close to Hopkins International.
“Another time, Mike was at an arbitration meeting at the Grand Hyatt in the city on the last day of the month,” Mark recalls. “It was winter, it was zero degrees, there was snow on the ground and he had a few free minutes so we went behind Grand Central and a couple of people spotted us and you could tell they were thinking: ‘Who are these idiots having a catch on a night like this?’”
In other ways they’ve been fortunate: Mike went to college only an hour away from home, so it was easy then. And unlike many baseball executives who build three-page resumes bouncing from Bismarck to Boise to Bakersfield to Boston, Mike started an internship after college in Cleveland and just kept rising up the Indians’ ranks.
“We know this can’t, and probably won’t, last forever,” Mark says, and he knows that might well mean it ends this month, if things don’t open up in New York and Ohio, or next month if they do and both are scrambling to get their baseball team and their radio station back up to speed.
“But while there’s a chance, we want to keep it going as long as we can. Respect the streak.”
“Yes,” Mike says. “Respect the streak.”