Another opening day

I failed to mark the first anniversary of this blog last February but today provides me the opportunity to continue a yearly tradition of sorts, one I began exactly 364 days ago marking opening day for Chicago's baseball teams.


It is a special day especially for baseball fans in this town as it is the one day every year when in the morning at least, the Cubs and the White Sox are assured to be in first place. Hope indeed springs eternal as both teams are good enough this year to have a chance at least to make the playoffs in October, and perhaps beyond.


It is that hope that makes this day so special in a city whose professional sports teams, especially the ones that play baseball, have very little to show for their combined 256 years of existence.


That point was driven home as we watched two TV shows that aired consecutively last night, "What it Means to Be a White Sox" (sic) and "What it means to be a Cub". Both shows brought back fond memories for longtime Chicagoans such as myself, featuring memorable, if not great players from mostly second place teams.


The exceptional Chicago team of course is the 2005 White Sox who not only made it to the World Series but won it in impressive fashion by sweeping the Houston Astros in four games. Unfortunately it was the only World Series win of a Chicago team in the 51 years I've been on this planet, and only the second appearance in a World Series of a Chicago team in that time. It was also the only Chicago baseball championship in my mother's life although she lived through six Chicago World Series. I doubt if she remembers most of them however as three of them occurred before she was seven years old.


Making a point of the futility of being a Cub fan, long time radio broadcaster Pat Hughes speculated what it might be like someday to be the first Cub announcer to ever say over the air; "The Cubs have won the World Series". The last time the North Siders won the Fall Classic was in 1908, long before baseball games were broadcast on the radio.


But today is not a day to be negative, it's one hour or so before Mark Buehrle's first pitch on the South Side, and about three until Atlanta where the Cubs will open against the Braves, and all is definitely well in Chicago.


As I did last year, I am providing links to two of my favorite pieces of writing on the greatest game ever invented, two pieces that bespeak of the bittersweet essence of the game that perhaps today only a true Chicago Cub fan can understand fully. They are the late A. Bartlett Giamatti's lovely "The Green Fields of the Mind", and Ernest Thayer's famous poem "Casey at the Bat".


Here's to opening day and the two happiest words in the English language:


Play ball!



June, 19, 2009, the day my boy fell in love with baseball.




















Post script: Mark Buehrle pitched seven brilliant shut out innings and added an incredible play of his own in the field to lead the White Sox to a 6-0 win over the Cleveland Indians.


Meanwhile the Cubs lost 16-5 against the Atlanta Braves marking their worst opening day performance since 1884.


But hey, it's a long season.

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Summer in the City

As the mercury threatens to reach the century mark today, unbelievably I'm lamenting the imminent demise of summer. In the many childless years I had since leaving school, summer was simply a time to put up with uncomfortable weather.

But now that children are in my life I have come to love summer. I like not having to rush around so much getting everybody ready for school and work. The fewer obligations and slightly slower flow of life this time of year are very welcome. I love the still too infrequent days that I have the two kids to myself to explore the city, taking them on the Metra and the El just for the ride.

The best part of all this summer is that my son has finally discovered baseball. We've already been to a Cubs game and in a couple of weeks I've gotten him to agreee to go down to the Cell for a Sox game. He was turned off by the noise of the fireworks four years ago. Practically every day we're outside playing a little one on one baseball game that we invented. As is his nature about his new passions, he's obsessed. If you see a little boy on the street wearing a Cubs hat, winding up and pitching an imaginary baseball, it's probably my boy.

When people have asked him what he did this summer, he invariably tells them; "I played baseball with my Dad." For a father there is nothing in the world better than hearing that.

Summer's almost over but we still have our vacation to look forward to. And of course the Sox game. We're going to hear Beethoven's Ninth in Millennium Park next week. Hopefully we'll be able to catch the Zoppe Circus which we see every year. Then summer will be really over and the obligations of normal life will return. There will still be lots to look forward to. The World Series, my son's first opera at the Lyric, (Tosca) and Halloween (Charlie Chaplin and Frieda Kahlo, two probable costume candidates) to name just a few.

But as I've gotten older, I have learned not to put so much into looking forward. Now I prefer to concentrate on the here and now. Time just goes by so damned fast these days.

So today it's summer, it's gonna be stinking hot, and I'm going to love every moment of it.

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A beautiful day for a ballgame

Last Friday was supposed to be the boy's first trip to Wrigley Field, a rite of passage for any Chicago youngster. He's been to Sox games at the Cell but the noise from the fireworks bothered him so much that it turned him off to baseball and worse, turned him into a Cub fan. I kept threatening to take him to a Cubs game, but as the years went by the moment never presented itself, in other words, I never had tickets fall into my lap.

Until this year that is when my wife bought a pair (at face value!) for a work outing and gave them to me for Father's Day.

Game day came and it seemed that the forces of nature, the baseball gods themselves perhaps were conspiring against us. Thunderstorms predicted for the whole day, 90 percent chance of precipitation. Even if the rain held off temporarily, I never thought my son would venture out in a thunderstorm which for him is as bad as fireworks.

The day started off ok, in the morning the sun even made a brief appearance. But it quickly became apparent that it was gong to get ugly and fast. The sky darkened and pretty soon the thunder claps started and the sky opened up with torrential rain. My son and daughter were both hiding under the covers. During a brief hiatus we piled into the car and started heading south. Before long the torrents returned. A lightning bolt pointed straight down hit I'd say about two blocks in front of us. On the radio they were predicting a break in the storms for a couple of hours and they said they might be able to get the game in. But at that point I was more worried about the children's safety than seeing a ball game. I was actually hoping they'd call the game so we wouldn't have to go to the park to claim the rain checks. My boy said "maybe we can just listen on the radio."

Finally we picked up my wife at work and we decided to have lunch together. While we ate, the rain stopped and the sky opened up a bit. Much to his credit, my son never once balked about going to the game, he was very brave. I had my wife drop us off in front of a souvenir shop two blocks from the ballpark so I could buy him a Cubs cap. Then we got into Wrigley and all the emotions of seeing that glorious field hit me, and perhaps the boy too if just a little. We got to our seats and it looked like they could be ready to play any moment. But the announcer said that another storm was predicted to pass through the area and the game wouldn't start for another hour.

That was cool, we could just take everything in.

There is simply no better place in the world to watch a ball game than Wrigley Field. Our seats were in the upper deck, first base line and we had a spectacular view of the entire north side and the thunder heads that were dumping more rain there, but not on us. While we were in the "cheap seats" we still were close enough to the game and could see almost the whole field with the exception of the right field foul line.

Of course there's the ivy and the ancient hand operated scoreboard that even with my failing eyesight I could still read. The folks behind us were amazed at the speed in which scoreboard guy posts balls and strikes which was true, sometimes I think he calls them quicker than the ump.

And the history. The Homer in the Gloamin, Babe Ruth's called shot, 93 seasons without a championship.

When they finally started to play, the Indians (it was an inter-league game) took an early lead with a three run homer in the second. They posted an other three-spot in the third and added another run soon after. I thought, boy if I had a dime for every 7-0 game I've been to...

The Cubs until the day before when they staged a big comeback against the Sox, had been struggling at the plate. But they slowly chipped away at Cleveland's lead with solo home runs in the sixth and seventh innings. Then came the bottom of the eighth. The Cubs batted around that inning and when it was over came to within one run.

The beauty of baseball is that is isn't governed by a clock like other sports. Which means there is no such thing as an insurmountable lead. A team could be down ten runs with two outs in the ninth and still however unlikely, come back. The same can't be said in other sports where time constraints would make such a comeback a physical impossibility. Yogi Berra's famous line; "It ain't over 'till it's over" really holds true for baseball.

On the flip side, by this time we'd been there about four hours and even though my Cub fan son wanted his team to win, he was ready to go home. He asked me how long before it was over. I said not too reassuringly, "well if the Cubs tie it up in the ninth, it could go on forever!"

Which they did.

Derrek Lee hit a solo shot, his second home run of the day.

Now my son was really worried that we'd never get out of there. He's only eight after all and has never been to a complete ballgame, let alone an extra inning affair. I promised him that no matter what happened, we'd leave at the end of the tenth. The Cubs got out of a jam in the top of the inning and then got two quick outs in the bottom.

As much as I hate leaving a ballgame before it's over, a promise is a promise, and by now I was resigned to leave without knowing the outcome of the game.

But then the much maligned Alfonso Soriano came to the plate and did what every good leadoff hitter should do, he drew a walk. Then he stole second. Ryan Theriot came up to the plate and with two strikes on him hit a sharp grounder to first which should have ended the inning. But it took a crazy hop which the Cleveland first baseman couldn't handle. Soriano scored, Cubs win.

Even the Sox fan in me got swept up in the passion of the crowd which much to my surprise was into every pitch, at least where we sat.

My boy didn't quite grasp what was going on, I've been woefully remiss in teaching him the game.

Until last last Friday that is. It was a great day.

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A beautiful day for a ballgame

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Crosstown Series

This evening weather permitting, is the beginning of what most baseball fans in Chicago wait for all year, the Crosstown Series between the Cubs and the White Sox. This is one of the most bitter rivalries in American sports as most Cub fans truly dislike the Sox and most Sox fans hate the Cubs.


Here's a link to something I wrote several years ago. It is dated only in the last part when I wrote about bragging rights which I said were a tossup at the time. Bragging rights now clearly belong to the White Sox who in 2005 won the World Series. In contrast this year marks the beginning of the second century of futility for the Cubs, not that I need to rub it in.


I became a White Sox fan in 1973. Before that I rooted mostly for the Cubs, I lived and died with them in the tumultuous 1969 season when they were set to take the division in August. Unfortunately they forgot they had to play through September.


The pitching staff was led by Hall of Famer, the great Fergie Jenkins. I still remember the lineup, Kessenger, Beckert, Williams (Hall of Famer), Banks (Hall of Famer), Santo (not in the Hall of Fame), Hundtley, then a few rotating Bozos in center and right field, let's see, there was Jim Hickman, Adolpho Phillips, a few other guys, and of course the immortal Don Young who single-handedly lost a few games with his scintillating outfield play. Even Jack Brickhouse, the broadcaster who never uttered a word of criticism of the home team had to express his disgust.


Frankly it was a too hard of a life lesson for a ten year old and I began to lose interest.


Then a few years later, a little older and wiser, I started watching the Sox. They weren't a better team by a long shot, but they were way cooler. They played night games and the fans weren't screaming little kids as they were back then in Wrigley Field. They had bad ass Ritchie Allen, who later became Dick Allen at first, Bill Melton at third, Carlos May in left, Pat Kelly, who my mother thought was an Irishman before she saw him, in right. Wilbur Wood the big fat knuckleballer who was about 50 at the time was their ace. Big fat Ed Hermann with his mitt the size of a small house was their only catcher who could handle Wilbur's knuckleballs. Bucky (F-ing) Dent as they call him to this day in Boston, was a rookie short stop. They tore up the league for a while but unlike the '69 Cubs, started to fade in mid-season and finished a distant fifth that year.


The best thing about the Sox was Harry Caray. He was already a legend after many years as the Cardinals' broadcaster. Such a breath of fresh air after the avuncular Brickhouse who spent most of his on-air time reading his mail. A typical Brickhouse broadcast would feature more dead air than the lunar atmosphere.


Harry was always pitching some kind of beer. In '73 it was Falstaff. One of his frequent guests in the booth was Dizzy Dean. They'd banter back and forth both of them filling up on Falstaff as the game went on.


One of my favorite exchanges was when they were talking about Sox 300 game winner Early Wynn. Harry said that Early was so mean that he'd even pitch high and inside to own his mother. Diz retorted, "his mother was a good fast ball hitter!"


Harry would not mince words about the home team, if they stunk, he'd yet you know. I can still hear his voice, bottom of the ninth, two outs with the bases loaded, the Sox down by a run, Dick Allen at bat, 3-0 count. "Here's the pitch.... paaaaahped it up"


Losing was never that much fun with the Cubs.


I've been a Sox fan ever since, even after Harry defected to the north side.


Some fun teams since then, the "South Side Hitmen" team of 1977, the "Winning Ugly" 1983 team that could have maybe won the pennant if only they could have won game 4 of their series against the Orioles and had given the ball to the at the time un-beatable LaMarr Hoyt. The '94 team that looked un-stoppable and might have been had it not been for the baseball strike.

Lots of coulda, shouldas in Chicago sports.



Then of course there was the glorious 2005 season.


A typical Sox fan's two favorite teams are the Sox, and anybody who's playing the Cubs. On the contrary, I don't hate the Cubs, I root for them, just not emphatically. In 1984 I too was depressed when the ball went through Leon Durham's legs in San Diego. I suffered as much as anybody during the Bartman game. And after a magnificent season, last year's playoff performance was like watching a giant deflating beach ball.


The Cubs notably have found more creative ways to lose than any other team in history.


This Friday I'm bringing the boy to his first Cubs game. He's been to White Sox games but he hated the noise of the fireworks so much that he became a Cub fan much to my consternation.


Maybe the drunken frat boys who now populate Wrigley Field will make him want to be a White Sox fan again.


But I'll be rooting for the Cubs just the same. They're playing Cleveland, the Sox' divisional rivals.


I'll let you know how it all turns out.

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Crosstown Series

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High tech Low tech

In a time when it's possible at the press of a button to access virtually any piece of information anytime, anywhere in the world in a matter seconds, it's wonderful to see a form of mass communication that is so low tech it could have been implemented a thousand years ago.

What I'm speaking of is the tradition of flying one of two flags from the scoreboard after a Cub's game at Wrigley Field, a white flag with a blue W for a Cub's win, or a blue flag with a white L for a loss.

The flag is visible to anyone passing by the ballpark after a game. The tradition started shortly after the iconic scoreboard, itself a marvel of the lowest of low technology, was installed in 1937.

The success of the Cubs at the box office if not on the field, is attributable to the charm of Wrigley Field. The owners if the team have to their credit steadfastly avoided most of the bells and whistles used at most big time sporting events. As everyone knows, night games were not played at the old ballpark until 1988.

As baseball is the ultimate game of stats, a true fan of the game hardly would be satisfied by the limited information available from the two flags. Someone equipped with an iPhone and internet access can in real time not only find the score of a game, but the speed and location of every pitch, the number of swings each batter took, just about anything everything but the smell of the hot dogs.

Still it's nice to go back to a simpler time and ride by the old ballpark on the L as I did with the kids today and find out how the Cubbies did simply by looking out the window.

Another great urban experience, this one unique to Chicago.

Incidentally today they were flying the L flag which was fine with me.

I'm a White Sox fan.

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