Ed Farmer

Longtime White Sox radio announcer Ed Farmer died Wednesday at the age of 70.  No cause of death was given, but Farmer suffered from polycystic kidney disease which would have killed him if not for a kidney his brother Tom donated in 1991.

 

For Ken Harrelson, the White Sox were an acquired taste, which the Hawk managed to develop over decades in the TV booth; no doubt, a nice paycheck helped.  But with Farmer, the White Sox were a birthright that comes to any South Sider, and Farmer always let the world know he hailed from 79^th and Francisco.  He dreamed of being a pitcher for the White Sox, and so he was, from 1979-81.

 

As broadcasters, both Farmer and Harrelson would be called “homers,” which is about as helpful as saying both Andrew Jackson and Bernie Sanders are Democrats.  Here’s the difference:  Hawk never was heard to say a discouraging word.  But Farmer was more like my father, critical yet loving, though probably with an easier sense of humor.  I once heard the Hawk sing the praises of Casper Wells, who hit a modest .167 for the South Siders in 2013.  Ed Farmer knew better than to insult the fans’ intelligence.

 

Chicago is a Catholic town.  Some people wear their faith like a big bright badge—think the McCaskeys—while others just let it show.  That was Farmer.  If the game was on a Sunday, home or away, he’d casually mention attending Mass in the morning.  What he didn’t talk about—and what marks him again like my father, another South Side person of faith—was his health.  I had no idea until reading the obituaries Farmer took as many as 56 pills a day in order to function.    

 

Farmer loved to tell stories, one of which has always stayed with me.  When Clare was in first grade, parents were required to donate service hours at her school; my job was delivering groceries on a Saturday afternoon so many times a year until I’d done my time, so to say.  The school got a percentage of the tab as part of a special fundraising program.

 

I’ve done some quick research, and it was probably March 26, 1999, a Saturday.  Naturally, I had the Sox game on the radio between deliveries.  Farmer was telling a story about Cal Ripken Sr., one of his coaches during a cup of coffee with the Orioles in 1977.  Ripken was talking, and talking, to a group of pitchers while smoking.  “Not an ash from that cigarette fell to the ground, friends,” Farmer recalled.  Ripken had died from lung cancer a day earlier.

 

It was probably late May in 2002 that Clare and I shared an Ed Farmer encounter.  She had the day off of school, and I’d managed tickets for a Sox day game.  We got to the park incredibly early, which is how my daughter likes it.  If someone asked her to come early and sweep the stands or mow the lawn, the girl would be outside the gates at the crack of dawn.  So, she was in her element walking around, looking around.

 

All of a sudden, there appeared Ed Farmer approaching us.  I pointed him out to my daughter, “That’s the Sox announcer.  Go get his autograph.”  And that’s exactly what she did.  All I know is he gave it in such a way that she remained a fan from that moment on.  Clare always would say how listening to Ed Farmer made her happy.  Yes, it did.