Meaning

Sports have always occupied a good deal of my life.  At the age of 15, I cursed God (yes, though behind closed doors so my parents didn’t hear) for letting the White Sox lose the pennant in the last week of the 1967 season.  Three years later, God let me suffer through a 56-106 season with talk of the Sox moving to Milwaukee.

I felt a different kind of pain on a Sunday afternoon in November of 1968 when Gayle Sayers, the Kansas Comet, blew out his right knee against the 49ers; such a gift once bestowed on a running back should not be taken away except for cause.  With the White Sox more mediocre than not in the 1970s and the Bears a good deal worse, I found meaning in the Bulls of Motta, Van Lier, Sloan et al.  With the ‘80s came adulthood, the demands of which led me to ration energy, if you will.  Try following—really following—more than one sport while raising a family and taking care of elderly parents.

I couldn’t, but judging from all the people who showed up in downtown Chicago yesterday for the NFL draft, the fault lies with me.  Adults abandoned their regular lives to don jerseys and cheese gear in order to walk along Michigan Avenue in search of a gridiron savior if not the real deal.  (Hint: I doubt He’ll put in an appearance at Draft Town.)  I loved it when the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, but my life didn’t change all that much.  I must be missing something.  That third-round pick out of Clemson could be a sleeper.