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" Scott Raab: In July 1994, I went to Dallas to write a profile of Dennis Rodman. Dennis was a San Antonio Spur at the time, and Dallas was his hometown. He was by then the NBA&amp;#039;s bad boy, but he had not yet become a Chicago Bull, a quasi-transvestite, and a full-blown drunk.  I myself was a full-blown drunk in &amp;#039;94 -- toasted on one substance or another virtually every day of my life since 1971, with the exception of a couple of white-knuckled dry years that ended with several bangs in &amp;#039;93. If you&amp;#039;ve known or seen what happens when an alcoholic/addict falls off the wagon in real life, you already know this part of the story. If not, suffice it to say that, given any choice, I was inclined to make a poor one. Strongly inclined. Dennis wanted us to do the initial interview at a tattoo parlor -- he was getting a lot of work done on his back that summer. The plan was to meet at a bar first and then head over to the inkshop from there.  Ever the pro, I got to the bar ahead of schedule -- this was early on a weekday afternoon -- and started drinking. When D.R. arrived, I was drunk already. When we left, the two of us were well-hammered.  Somewhere en route to the tattoo parlor -- I was following Dennis in my rental; he was riding his Fat Boy -- I thought it would be a fine idea to get some tattoos. Bonding with the subject is always good. And immersion journalism demands a writer&amp;#039;s full commitment. And who gives a fecking feck?  I already had a couple of tattoos from the early &amp;#039;70s -- a Star of David and a heart with &amp;quot;Mother&amp;quot; on a banner across it -- but I wasn&amp;#039;t out of ideas. No, sir. This time, I would pay homage to yet another central player in my life. Fella by the name of Wahoo. First name Chief. It&amp;#039;s too late to make a long story short, I know, but I&amp;#039;ll try anyway. Chief Wahoo wasn&amp;#039;t the only tattoo I got that day, just the biggest and most colorful. It also was the only one that possibly could be interpreted as mocking the genocide of our nation&amp;#039;s First Peoples.  I felt some degree of initial distress the next morning when I awoke -- in a room at a La Quinta that I couldn&amp;#039;t for the life of me remember checking into -- and noticed blood seeping through a large gauze bandage taped to my sore arm. When I carefully removed the gauze and saw Wahoo, I perked up a bit.  I love Chief Wahoo. Love the Tribe. Loved that Indians team -- Ramirez, Belle, and Lofton in the outfield, Thome, Vizquel, and Baerga in the infield -- young, gifted, and bound for the glory no Cleveland fan of my vintage had ever known. Sure, I knew it wasn&amp;#039;t a great choice for a tattoo. But at least it wasn&amp;#039;t Danny Ferry or &amp;quot;Touchdown&amp;quot; Tommy Vardel. Or Harvey Pekar.  ***** It&amp;#039;s a fine conversation starter. Airports, taxis, meetings -- wherever I go, I can count on Chief Wahoo to break the ice. He was a big hit with the Lakota at Wounded Knee and with the Lumbee in Pembroke, North Carolina. I&amp;#039;ve had a problem in New York City on occasion, especially of late, with young men shouting &amp;quot;FUCK CLEVELAND&amp;quot; as I walk past -- but that&amp;#039;s a good thing. Hell, that&amp;#039;s a great thing. Yet now it is October, with the Tribe on the brink -- one more win -- of the World Series, and Chief Wahoo is a big deal again. He is an insult. A degrading, racist caricature. An affront, an indignity, a mockery, a disgrace, a shondeh un a charpa for every Cleveland Indians fan who wishes to think of himself as compassionate and caring.  I get it. Believe me, I get it. Intellectually and emotionally. My arm is my problem. Chief Wahoo as the face of the team known as the Cleveland Indians needs to find a burial ground somewhere near Lake Erie -- the sooner, the better. I think the Tribe front office gets it, too. They&amp;#039;ve been dealing from a weak PR position ever since Mark Shapiro took over the team. The days of selling out 455 straight games are gone for good. The locals haven&amp;#039;t had much of anything resembling faith in Shapiro or owner Larry Dolan -- or the club itself, which still is sold short for not being the musclebound juggernaut of the John Hart years, and never mind that those teams never quite climbed the summit.  Maybe now -- come what may during the rest of the playoffs -- the Indians will find the corporate confidence to part ways with Wahoo, and to take whatever hit may follow from the traditionalistas and the perma-whiners. This team&amp;#039;s special, win or lose, everyone in Cleveland knows it now, and next season&amp;#039;s revenues will reflect that.  It&amp;#039;s a big deal bidding adieu to Chief Wahoo -- own it. A 2008 farewell tour with a final-game burial ceremony. Public apologia in every available forum. A scholarship fund. A big-ass yearlong contest for a new logo, with a diverse board of judges -- including, naturally, Joba Chamberlain. Win-win. ***** Scott Raab: One more win?  That&amp;#039;ll come. Tonight. At the sweat lodge known as Jacobs Field.  ***** Visit the Baseball Blog Archive Don&amp;#039;t agree with something you&amp;#039;ve read? Kick dirt on Scott Raab and Jay Levin&amp;#039;s pants by e-mailing esquirebaseball@gmail.com. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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