The Curse of the Lady of the Lake

By Erik Cassano
210 west Writer [send email]

Mankind has had a long and stormy relationship with the sea even since there were first humans treading through, swimming about and sailing on water. The grizzled old sailor with salt water in his veins could sit at the harbor bar, telling stories about the sea. Love it, but don’t disrespect it. Use it, but don’t abuse it. And above all, never, never, never neglect it or take it for granted.

It is the shallowest of the Great Lakes at a little over 210 feet deep, and as such is the most temperamental of the lakes. It’s easily angered waters have claimed the lives of thousands of sailors in 300-plus years of recorded boat traffic, so much that Lake Erie was once dubbed the graveyard of the inland seas.

In the second half of the 20th Century, Lake Erie became a different kind of graveyard. This time, the dead were the fish and underwater life, the lake’s rightful inhabitants. Years of unchecked industrial waste, much of it from Cleveland and Buffalo, were poured into the water. The lake’s ecosystem was nearly destroyed at a time when ecosystem wasn’t even a word.

The polluted water ran dark. Birds that hatched near the water had deformities. Fish carcasses washed up on shore. The lake became a national embarrassment. It was declared dead.

The lake was shamed. She had been abused and neglected terribly. And she was about to fight back.

But how? Terrible storms and waves sending ships to the bottom? Never stopped people before, and who knew what nasty things would be released by a broken cargo hold in this day and age?

Catch fire? That would only create more embarrassment. The Cuyahoga River tried that, and see where it got her.

The Lake would have to be craftier. She’d have to wage psychological warfare on these perpetrators who so scarred her. She’d hit them where it hurts. Right in the sports teams.

She’d figure out a way to curse the teams of Cleveland and Buffalo so they’d never win a championship for years. Oh, they’d get close. They’d get the carrot dangled right to the front teeth. But they’d get it snatched away at the last minute, every time.

It is so deviously perfect. Few things pump up or deflate a civic psyche like their sports teams. You win, you’re a city of champions. You lose, and you’re, well, Loserville.

Not only that, but the fans would have to sit back and watch all their talented (and less talented) players go on to greater things in other cities.

Bernie Kosar. Dominik Hasek. Ron Harper. Danny Ferry. These guys all have championship rings from a place not on Lake Erie.

Art Modell has one, too. All the former Browns and current Ravens owner had to do was leave Cleveland, take his team with him, and the pieces seemed to fall into place.

Red Right 88. The Drive. The Fumble. The Shot. Scott Nor-wide. Four straight losses in the Super Bowl. Art. Jose Mesa. Brett Hull.

Lake Erie showed them. She showed them all as she danced on the broken hearts of thousands of her violators.

The lake has started to be appeased in recent years. She’s cleaner, and thanks to stricter environmental laws, she doesn’t have waste belched into her at alarming rates anymore. But she’s still moody, and she hasn’t forgotten. Maybe she’ll loosen the noose a bit, maybe a championship will squeak in for Cleveland or Buffalo sometime soon. But her hand is still on the rope.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.