In almost sixty years of existence, I can't
recall waking up, checking the score of last night's ballgame, and seeing the
White Sox won 22-1.
Nope, I didn't watch the game. I don't get the cable network they play
on.
Instead, I finally got around to my annual
June tradition, one that started with the Oldman back in the early 1990s.
On a warm Saturday afternoon in June, I mowed the lawn at 220 South
Lombard. When I finished, my dad pulled a chilled bottle of Liebfraumilch from his
ice bucket and poured me a glass. That sweet German wine was Don Shepley's
favorite on hot summer days.
We sat in the shade on the deck he had built with some of his railroad
retirement money and listened to the radio.
Most Saturdays he listened to the old radio shows on WNIB, but that
afternoon the jazz station was playing George Gershwin. Rhapsody in Blue
drifted through the speakers while my Oldman and I guzzled cheap sweet white
wine together. Funny how a song and a bottle of wine can become part of a man's
calendar over thirty years later.
Ever since then, I have bought one bottle of Liebfraumilch every June.
It is the only time all year that I drink that stuff.
Last night I sat on my balcony overlooking the Divorced Dad District,
put on Rhapsody in Blue, polished off my annual bottle, and was sound
asleep by 8:30.
So, I have a pretty good excuse for not
listening to the Sox game on the radio last night.
Even so, this morning feels special. I have woken up before with the
White Sox in first place on June 27th.
The most magical season I remember was 1977, when both the Cubs and the
Sox spent most of the summer sitting in first place, only to melt in late
August and finish in third.
That summer I went to Comiskey with the altar boys, our associate
pastor, and a couple of dads. The Sox beat the Indians 18-2. For nearly fifty
years, that was my personal definition of an ass-kicking.
Now it is 2026, and the Sox are up a game in first place. It has been
twenty-one years since that magical World Series championship. A championship
shared by a Board of Trade guy and an Augustinian priest.
Years later, I'm no longer
standing in a trading pit in Chicago. I'm standing behind a trading desk in the
suburbs.
Years later, that priest isn't
living in a rectory anymore. He is living in the Vatican.
…And yes, I know "if" is
a dangerous word.
But IF the White Sox somehow pull off another magical season, maybe Pope
Leo and I will find ourselves at another World Series game at Comiskey.
A guy is allowed to wake up and
daydream on the last Saturday of June.
I have been around long enough to know the
baseball gods have a way of putting everything back into its proper alignment. That
won't stop me from feeling just a little special today.
I root for the same baseball team as the Pope. That means the man doing
Saint Peter's job understands gusto. He knows the astonishing feeling of
watching a scoreboard explode.
And if anybody asks...
Please don't tell them you saw me on my balcony drinking cheap German
wine while listening to that song from the old United Airlines commercial.
I've got to take the liberty of bullshiting and come up with a better
story when people ask me where I was the night the White Sox beat the Royals
22-1.
Okay, Chalkheads...
Go get 23 hits and score 22 runs today.
In other words...
… go have yourself a big win on
this beautiful Saturday.
