Seasons End

It was a cloudy Sunday afternoon in early October, perfect weather to cap one of the most frustrating seasons in White Sox history.  My father and I were among the 6,200 diehards on hand for the last regular game of the season.  Among other treats, we saw Tom McCraw circle the bases on a walk: ball four was a wild pitch followed by two throwing errors.  The Sox beat the As 6-0 for their 98^th win.  Why the frustration?  Well, a certain team from New York managed 99 wins for the American League pennant.    

Twenty-four years later, Michele and I attended the last night game ever at Comiskey Park.  There were nearly 43,000 people on hand for the nostalgia; little did they know the White Sox were about to trade in their 80-year old home for an exercise in state-of-the-art sterility.  Really, the “Cell” is a perfect nickname.

I’d spent the year keeping a journal of that final season at a real ballpark.  So, there was a silver lining to the pointless demise of yet another Chicago landmark.  Two, actually.  The journal turned into a book, and we decided to start a family.

Yesterday found us at another last night game of the season, Sox and Kansas City again (although the Royals instead of the As).  It was a night to hope—that the Sox would avoid 100 losses (they did) and the rookies would perform (they mostly did, too).  Marcus Semian, Jordan Danks and Conor Gillaspie all homered while Erik Johnson started off by throwing 4-2/3 innings of hitless ball; second-year closer Addison Reed managed not to blow the save.  The postgame fireworks’ show proved to be icing on a very modest cake.

Grownups and children together—there’s the essence of a baseball game.  Not AC/DC blaring on the sound system or the moronic shell game on the Jumbotron or the interns tossing tee-shirts into the crowd.  Father (and mother) and daughter.  Whenever rookie Leury Garcia went fishing (American Angler must be his favorite magazine), I leaned over and complained to Clare, “What’re you swinging at?”

To which she smiled.