On the Beach

To Chicagoans of a certain age (like me), the city beaches represent a summer refuge from bungalow heat.  Houses built of brick may keep the big bad wolf at bay, but they can also turn into a kiln come June and July.  It was two or three buses for us to get to Rainbow Beach, where I turned into a master of sandcastles and waist-deep wading.

Michele and I hit the beach yesterday, sans shovel and pail, but we brought along plenty to read along with a radio.  Our destination was Kathy Osterman Beach on the North Side, about a mile from where we parked.  The weather was beautiful with a breeze off the lake, so we didn’t mind the walk from Foster Avenue.  Note:  If you want to remember where you parked the car in the lot, line it up with the trapeze school operating steps from the lakefront.  Those daring young people flying through the air all but shout—you parked here.

I only listened to the White Sox game long enough to hear Ed Farmer and Darrin Jackson scratch their heads—how could I tell without seeing?—over the mystery that is Dylan Covey.  A few months ago, the right-hander seemed to have it figured out, but that was then and this is now, with Covey sporting a 4-9 record and 6.06 ERA after being lifted in the third inning of the game against the Indians.  I can listen to the Sox lose anytime while we only get to the beach a few times a year.  I shut the radio off, the better to hear the waves.

I didn’t expect the game to be on still when we got home at 4:30.  Lo and behold, the White Sox rallied from a 9-1 deficit to lose by a more or less respectable score of 9-7.  Lo and behold, Adam Engel denied a third batter—Yonder Alonso—a homerun in the course of a week.  Engel even went three for four with a triple, homerun and three RBIs.  He is now hitting .224.

Hope springs eternal on a Sunday afternoon in mid-August.