SEVEN HILLS, Ohio -- The moment he hears the voice on the other end, he starts to sing.

Ron Ochmann has never met nor spoken with the person he's serenading. That detail won't bewilder those who know him well.

He suggests a lunch meeting and says to search for the man donning pink shorts, a green bandana and yellow socks. When that description is met with silence, he chuckles.

"I don't know what the hell I'll be wearing, for Christ's sake," he says.

Ochmann, 91, spent much of his life catching early-morning flights to Chicago's Midway International Airport, negotiating labor contracts and flaunting his lack of a filter.

An Indians ticket rep called him one day in 1994 and convinced him to purchase a pair of seats in Section 164. Since, he has attended 60-70 games per season. He'll relax in the aisle seat, with his cane -- he hates "the damn thing" -- leaning against the armrest. The seat to his left belongs to his wife, Annie, who joins him most nights.

Ron has paid for both seats since Jacobs Field opened in 1994.

Annie died 19 years ago.

The Mayor of Section 164

"Is your name Amy?" Ron asks the puzzled waitress as she serves him a cup of coffee.

"Grace," she answers.

"I'd like to sing to you," he says.

"I don't know that song," she says.

"No," he replies. "That's because I'm old and you're young."

A generational gap never keeps Ron from interacting. Everyone knows "Mr. O," from the cop directing traffic to the ballpark ushers to those sitting near him in Section 164. He attended a live performance of "Sound of Music" with his son's family this summer. By the final act, he had completed a different conversation with every person seated within earshot.

His mouth occasionally steers him toward trouble, but not nearly as often as it should. He frequents the season-ticket holder club behind home plate, where, earlier this year, he engaged in dialogue with a stranger about the Tribe's scuffling offense.

"They shouldn't be called hitters," he vented to her. "They can't hit!"

He later learned that the woman was related to one of the Indians' hitting coaches.

"When I stick my foot in my mouth," he says, "I stick it all the way."

Ron and Annie attended the Indians' exhibition game against the Pirates on April 2, 1994, the christening of the new ballpark. A tradition was conceived.

More than 20 years later, Ron is as recognizable as Francisco Lindor or Corey Kluber to those in his section. He has forged long-term friendships. Chas, a former police officer, has sat behind him since 1994. Minda, who sits nearby, still occasionally sports Annie's old Indians jacket.

Ron knows the ushers by name. He can recite their favorite restaurants.

"They're people," he says. "I want to see them smile."

Once a season, Wyatt Glover treks to Cleveland from his home in Tennessee to join Ron for a game or two. They met on a flight about 20 years ago. Shortly thereafter, Ron shipped an Indians T-shirt to Wyatt's son. Ron and Wyatt have shared a Sunday morning phone call every week since, no exceptions.

Wyatt tagged along for two games last month. Otherwise, it's Annie's seat.

Do you remember me?

Ron returned to Cleveland in 1955 for his first day of work at Premier Industrial Corporation, following a month-long, sun-splashed stay in Florida.

A woman greeted him at the front of the office.

"You're Ron Ochmann, aren't you?" she asked.

Now, Ron was feeling awfully confident and, as always, bold. In his mind, he was gorgeous, thin and handsome. His face was tan, glowing. Everyone else was pale and ghastly looking. "The word is out," he thought to himself.

"Do you remember me?" she asked.

He didn't. She introduced herself as Anne Mills.

"That's nice," he replied, with a haughty nonchalance. She reminded him that they attended junior high together, but he had no recollection.

Ron proceeded to call Annie every month or two, seeking her opinion on various women in the office. She would roll her eyes at the routine. Ultimately, he asked Annie out.

At a company holiday party at the old Carter Hotel in downtown Cleveland, one of the founders, Mort Mandel, delivered an announcement to the entire office.

"My secretary, Anne Mills," he said, "is going to marry ... what the hell is that guy's name?"

Ron worked for Premier for more than 40 years. Only one job could have lured him away: serving as Albert Belle's mentor and publicist. He says he even reached out to the Indians about the surly slugger, but he never made headway.

A broken heart

Ron remembers following the ambulance to the Parma hospital.

He had sped home from an appointment at the clinic in Beachwood on that cloudy, November morning in 1998. Annie was feeling ill and doctors placed her in cardiac care and conducted some tests.

Before she took a sedative -- which was supposed to knock her out for five hours -- Annie instructed Ron on how to feed their cockapoo, Maggie: Boil the hamburger before giving it to her.

When their priest arrived at the hospital, Annie woke up, just one hour into her afternoon slumber.

"Annie, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I don't know, Father," she said. "There was some pain and they wanted to do some tests."

They shared a prayer.

"I feel a little nauseous now," she said.

He pointed to some crackers on her table. She never uttered another word.

As he completed his errands, Ron received an ambiguous message from the hospital. When he walked into the building, he demanded to see her.

"She passed away," he was informed.

Ron screamed.

Nearly 20 years have passed since Annie's heart tapped out. Annie's army of dolls now occupies a series of shelves in a room upstairs. Photos of their three granddaughters seemingly cover every inch of first-floor real estate. Ron boasts about the vibrant flowers -- "the prettiest in the neighborhood," he contends -- in the front bed. He purchased them; their son, David, planted them.

A bright, lime-green carpet spans the living room, but the center of attention is the big-screen TV. Annie would not have approved of the massive monitor.

"She sees the size of that TV in the window and she says, 'Damn, you!'" Ron says.

Ron points to the front bay window, where Maggie rested on a daily basis for years and watched passersby. Maggie never touched another dog. Ron is convinced she thought she was a human.

"She was my replacement," David says, referencing when he went off to college. "I'm sure my mother and Maggie talked in whatever language they could communicate in."

'That's what she was about'

He's already mid-tune when his phone call is answered.

"Hey, Ron..."

It's a song befitting his wife, ever the optimist. She maintained her faith in the Indians from the first pitch through the ride home.

Etched onto her headstone is the expression, "Her warm smile will always be with us."

For the last 19 years, Section 164, Row R, Seat 2 at Progressive Field has remained empty.

Ron will periodically make an exception and gift his tickets to a friend or a relative celebrating an anniversary. On most nights, though, he'll cruise downtown in his Audi coupe and occupy that aisle seat a handful of rows behind the Indians' dugout. The adjacent seat may appear vacant, but Annie's spirit is always present.

And if it weren't, well, Ron's conscience couldn't handle the ramifications.

"That thunder and lightning you would hear is if I brought some young girl to sit next to me at the ballpark," he says. "That would be Annie raising hell."

"He's 91 and he thinks his ideal woman is 30," David says.

Ron donates the value of Annie's ticket each game to Cleveland Indians Charities.

"God took her early," he says, "but I still have her at the ballpark and her friends still ask about her."

Ron recalls certain things Annie said or did, but he sometimes tries to quickly flush the thoughts. It's too bittersweet, too emotionally taxing. The ballpark is his escape, his haven. He buzzes around his section like a door-to-door salesman, pitching conversation topics to every face, familiar or foreign.

Then, the middle of the seventh inning arrives, and Ron experiences another one of those emotionally complex moments.

As they carried Annie's casket out of St. Stanislaus Church, the organist started his tune.

"It's almost like everybody was going to clap and cheer," Ron says. "Let's bring tears to your eyes, for heaven's sake. Annie would have loved it. Maybe she did love it. Who knows what happens when you die?"

No song seemed more appropriate.

"She was such a fan," David says. "That song really embodies her, because it's bigger than baseball. That song brings vibrance, fun, hope. That's what she was about."

That seat might be empty, but it helps keep Ron Ochmann fulfilled.

"Often times when people die," Ron says, "you remember them for a period of time, but as time goes by, you remember them a little less and a little less. With Annie -- every freaking ballgame, Annie's there."