My father took
me to the last game of the season in 1964.
It was a cloudy, sad Sunday despite the White Sox winning their 98th
game of the season maybe because the Yankees won 99.
Fifty years
later, on a warm cloudless Sunday afternoon, I took my family to the last game
of the season, and Paul Konerko’s career.
For a while it was easy to dream.
Marcus Semian homered; Josh Phegley had an rbi double to go with his two
homers the night before; and rookie starter Chris Bassitt pitched decently. Every time Konerko came to the plate, we
stood and chanted: Paul-ie! Paul-ie!
It all looked like a White Sox winner until the relievers came in.
The season
ended, we drove back home, and Clare left to go back to Valpo. Next spring seems an eternity from now.
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