From Cleveland.com:

This spring, we asked readers to tell us their best memory at an Indians game. More than 600 of you responded. All season, The Plain Dealer will publish fan memories -- one each day the Indians are scheduled to play. Here is Sunday's essay by Jeff Taylor of Seattle.

1987... June, perhaps July.

Obviously, enough of the season had passed to place the Indians out of contention. Therefore, a group of 12-year-olds' attention was focused more toward such topics as if Kenny Schrom could be better than Steve Carlton or who else was on Chris Bando's rookie card. These were always very heated and important arguments.

The A's were in town and, as always, a group of four or five of us took the rapid shuttle from University Heights to the Terminal [Tower]. Amazing now when I think our folks used to let us do this unaccompanied. We'd plan to arrive at the park as the gates opened, buy a $3 junior general admission seat and rush through the turnstiles to the bleachers to be in a position to shag a few bombs from the visiting team's batting practice session.

A few souvenirs later, we'd plop ourselves in the front row, first section inside the left-field foul pole. I'm not sure if these were technically in the GA section or just close enough to where no one seemed to care. Regardless, we'd love to run our 12-year-old mouths to the opposing bullpen, outdoing each other by calling Rick Honeycutt "Honey-Butt" and Eric Plunk ... Well, I'm sure you can imagine how much fun we had with that name.

On this day, my friend Steven was with us. It was actually the first game he could join us that year, having recently completed a round of chemotherapy. I actually don't remember what kind of cancer he was diagnosed with about a year prior. At that age, I'm not sure such details were important. I just knew that he was sick and we went on with our business, having fun and creating trouble as if nothing was different.

Around the eighth inning though, after several chants of "Honey-Butt" to try to get a rise out of him, Rick Honeycutt acknowledged us and walked up the railing. I remember feeling apprehensive as I thought we were about to get an earful if not more. Then, to my surprise, Rick smiled at us, called Steven closer, shook his hand, offered some encouraging words and gave him a ball.

Thinking back now, I can't tell you anything about the game itself, although I think Mark McGwire hit a home run.

Steven passed away later that year. I'm 35 today and, despite my hundreds of memories of that old park and of the all the mischief that my friend Steven used to try to pull, the image of him smiling after talking with Rick Honeycutt is always the first that pops in my head when I think of my friend or my childhood of rooting on the Tribe.