North Side, South Side, Our Side

Like her father and his father before her, my daughter is a White Sox fan to the core of her being.  She proved that yesterday on a tour of Wrigley Field.

Clare’s place of employment thought it would be fun for her department to go on a morning tour.  They got to see the World Series trophy; Clare didn’t swoon.  They passed around a World Series ring; she didn’t touch it.  They saw several Silver Slugger Awards; now, those impressed her.  All of the above said, I admit that one of my favorite moments with this White Sox fan happened at Wrigley Field when she was in third grade.

A radio station had called for my reaction to proposed landmark status for Wrigley.  I’d been part of a group that had tried to save Comiskey Park, and maybe they wanted to hear sour grapes on my part; in that, they were disappointed.  Whatever I feel about the Cubs or their fans, Wrigley Field is a landmark to the kind of place baseball should be played in.

I let the interviewer know as much on a late afternoon in early October; the ivy on the walls was just beginning to change colors.  Clare was still in her school uniform, because I’d picked her up straight from St. Bernardine’s to make it to the park by 4 PM.  Now it was closer to 5, shadows growing, the bleachers bathed in the autumn orange of a setting sun.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could make out my daughter running up and down a main aisle, catching imaginary balls or touching every base after hitting a homerun, I can’t say which.

For that memory, I won’t need a tour.