Opening Day and Holy Thursday
Two of the biggest days in the Chicago Catholic Archdiocese. The pomp, the circumstance, the dogma all coming together for nine men on a diamond and thirteen men at a supper table.
There was an age when I wouldn’t miss opening day. I haven’t been to one since Covid.
I went to an Opening Day in the early nineties that fell on Good Friday. Bo Jackson was playing for the Sox and he hit a homer in his first at bat after hip replacement surgery. It was a magical day in Bridgeport.
The only problem was that Good Friday is a day to abstain from everything. If Jesus sacrificed his life for me, I could at least refrain from a dozen Old Styles and the “Sausage Trifecta.”
I felt like Judas when I took a swig from the first cup of beer. By the third Old Style… I wasn’t feeling any Catholic guilt, so I went ahead and started the Sausage Trifecta. I wasn’t the only Catholic sneaking a hotdog at the ballpark.
There was a guy in front of me in the Polish sausage line that was telling his buddies that Cardinal Bernardin said it was alright to have a beer and a brat.
I went ahead and ate a Polish with grilled onions, a bratwurst with sauerkraut and an Italian sausage with roasted peppers and red sauce… the Sausage Trifecta and NO Sausage Trifecta can begin without a warm up Chicago Dog.
Nineteen inches of encased meat and one hundred and fifty ounces of krausened beer, I was going to hell in a hurry. The Sox ended up losing to the Yankees on that Good Friday, 11-6.
All because I had to break the rules and eat meat and drink beer on a holy day. I was the reason the Sox started 0-1 in 1993.
Today is the day that Hope and Salvation all come together. 1993 is over thirty years ago and there won’t be any Old Styles or Vienna hotdogs today. I’ll be honoring the “Sixty Days of Cecilia” with cottage cheese, avocados, broccoli and water.
I couldn’t abstain for Jesus, but I sure as hell will for my Ma.
Let’s Go Go you White Sox!
Enjoy your Easter Triduum and the opening series against the Detroit Tigers this weekend.
Don’t forget to thank the skinny Jewish kid for his big sacrifice and Mr. Comiskey for building a ballpark in Bridgeport.
