As we parked the car, I could see the monument in the distance, its curved repertoire and lights stretched up into the clouds. It was a fortress wrapped up in brick walls and good, old American ideals. We would have to follow the cement pathway like a yellow brick road leading to the gates of a world far greater than Oz. A land where the sound of metal on cloth made your heart skip a beat and a place where the number 108 means godliness and 162 means a lifetime.
Here we were at a baseball game. I don’t know if you remember it, but I do.
It was an August day as far as I know. Hell, I probably didn't even know what August was at that point. I was doubtlessly no more than five years old. We were in the nosebleeds—where one sneeze and you'd tumble all the way down to your great, green field of demise.
I didn't know much. In fact, I didn't know a damn thing. But I had on my little, black White Sox hat. I had put up an argument before we even left for the game because you had to wear your black White Sox hat too. I knew you liked your tan one and white one better. But today, I wanted you to be like me.
Upon our arrival you had unloaded Brittney from her car seat; we double checked the car to make sure we had everything.
“Mitts?” You asked me.
Check, I replied as I held up my very own left handed baseball mitt.
“Peanuts?” You asked again.
Check, I said again. I laughed as I put the peanuts in my mitt and raised those up as well.
“Tickets?”
“I don’t know, Daddddddd. You haven’t let me touch them!”
“Oh no, Ash! I think I left them at home!” You said as you checked your pockets with a brief pat of your hands.
“Dad! Home is far away!” I was panicked. The car ride took long enough without wanting to go back so soon.
“Just kidding! Here they are!” As you tucked the tickets back into your pocket, you started leading us to the stadium. Brittney's hand in one hand and mine in the other. Britt had the binoculars around her neck and held her light brown mitt, which was a bit big for her, in her right hand. I had the bag of peanuts and my mitt in my left. You brought your mitt and tucked it under your arm. The tickets in were buried deep in your back pocket, still not letting me hold my ticket yet.
The walk to the park seemed to be a hundred miles long. Maybe it was because Brittney was so young and couldn't walk fast, or maybe it was because a child's perspective always seems a bit disproportional in later years. When we park in that same lot now, I know we were just a couple blocks away at most but man did it seem different back then.
We finally entered the stadium and I couldn't hold onto my excitement. I didn't know what baseball really was. I didn't know what all the fuss was about but I was with you, Dad, so I was happy.
We walked around the concourse as you pointed out all the things a little kid would need to know. The bathrooms were gigantic. The field was bigger than the world and the statues were scary. You pointed out Lou, your favorite. Minnie Minoso had a statue as well. I giggled as I thought of Minnie Mouse playing baseball.
The food was everywhere. You told me that you could order burgers or nachos, but what kind of baseball fan would you really be? --You taught me that. Food at the ballpark consisted of only a few things. You needed peanuts to eat during the game. I loved peanuts but as most children did, I would eat the peanut whole (because to be honest, the peanut itself was the boring part of the meal. It wasn’t exciting without the salty goodness of the shell). At some point during the opposing teams at bats throughout the game, we got up to get hot dogs. Hot dogs that to me, tasted no different than the ones you heated up at home in the microwave, but you told me that they were way better. And it wasn’t just because they were roasted. It was because they were at the baseball game, and that, right there, made them better. I believed you.
That's how it worked. You were more than just my dad taking me to the first baseball game I’d remember. You were basically a god.
You taught me that whistling at a ball game was normal and kind of cool. That the ground was our personal garbage can. You could throw napkins, empty drinks, and the gross ends of the hot dog bun on the ground. You told me later someone would take a hose and clean it all up. You taught me that the closest to the game I could ever get is if I opened my mitt (that you inevitably made me bring with) and catch a ball coming my way. Then I was the baseball player. You taught me that it’s okay to lie after I get a ball. Even if I did catch a foul ball, I better pretend it was Frank Thomas' homer since that was the part of the game that I would look back at when I looked at that ball.
I didn't get a ball during that game, but if you think I don't at least think of grabbing my mitt every time I look to go to the field, you better start looking for the change-up.
We probably looked like an odd bunch to most people. Here you were with your olive skin and Italian style mustache with your two blonde daughters at a baseball game. One of them, being no older than two years old, with messy hair and an unbelievably loud mouth. The other, with a head full of ringlets, that was mystified when they turned the lights on and the sound of the bat hitting the ball.
This was the beginning of years at Comiskey (and eventually U.S. Cellular) Field.
You taught me more than just fly outs and who's on first.
You taught me that the manager never went to bat and that the words to the seventh inning stretch are more important than that of the pledge of allegiance.
Every question I asked, you knew the answer.
"Why is that guy standing behind the catcher?"
"He is the umpire or Blue, they call him, he decides what a strike is and what a ball is."
“Why do they call him Blue?”
“Because their uniforms used to be blue.” I asked him why they don’t call him Black now, because I would.
"WHY is there a net around the batter's box and why would you ever want to sit behind it? You couldn't get a ball that way!"
"The balls that get hit get hit pretty hard and someone could get hurt. And you probably couldn't get a ball sitting there, but do you see how close they are to the players? They can practically touch them!"
"If I was sitting there, I would go up and touch them."
"Who is that little boy on the field? Is that the manager’s son? Dad! You should be a manager! I want to go on the field!"
"That's the batboy. He grabs the bats after the players get on base and gives new baseballs to Blue." I grabbed the binoculars away from Brittney then, making her cry. As you soothed her, I started on my binocular mission.
"Hey Dad! Where is the batgirl? I don’t see her." I strained with all my might looking through my set of close-up eyes.
"Well... there isn't. Not yet. But maybe one day there will be."
The baseball game was long. I would lie if I said I was glued to my seat the whole time. It started getting cold once the lights turned on and I was playing with Brittney while you watched the game. There weren't a lot of fans (something I learned to expect later on) so Brittney and I could walk around the upper deck trying out other seats. If we found ones we liked that were closer, we made you move.
Brittney started getting tired and crabby around the sixth inning. You told me we would leave after the seventh inning stretch. That relived me, because I was getting sleepy too.
We were losing. It didn't matter to me but you seemed concerned. Every time the Sox were up to bat we would put our rally caps on. Rally caps. To this day, I still consider doing that to change our luck around. I might look like a fool with my baseball hat inside out and on my head, but I knew that I couldn't look worse than the losing team you spent money on to watch win.
When the seventh inning stretch happened, I realized how fun baseball games were. We got to scream and yell as we make hand movements.
"For its root, root, root for the WHITE SOX!" We screamed this line on the top of our lungs. After all, it was our job to show the other team who was going to win.
"For it's one." And we had to stick our hand out with one finger up.
"Two." We did it again with two fingers. Brittney wasn't good with her numbers yet so you helped her.
"Three strikes, you're out." Three fingers naturally forming the number then brought back into a fist with only your thumb pointing out as you punched the air above your shoulder like Blue does.
"At the old ball game." After the cheering we let people settle back into their seats and we grabbed our mitts and grudgingly dragged our feet out of the game.
The inning was continuing with the White Sox up to bat; we walked down the winding walkway and continued slowly to the gates.
"You know, if the bases get loaded, Frank Thomas will be up." You said when we got to the gates. You handed Brittney your mitt and carried her the rest of the way to the car. "Wouldn't it be neat if we saw the fireworks again if he hit a grand slam? Maybe the ball would even make its way out to us!"
Never in a million years did I think my god could have called something so close. We had just gotten out of the gates and took twenty of my size steps toward the car when we heard the echoes of cheering. It wasn't the normal cheering for strikeouts or change of positions. It was definitely a grand slam. We saw the tips of the fireworks and that was all I needed to see; I was hooked. I ran around uncontrollably, waiting for what I was sure would be the ball falling to the ground. I never heard the thump but I looked under the cars and in between the lanes. I walked around waiting for that ball to find me with my mitt opened up turned toward the sky.
Frank Thomas did it again, leading the team to victory.
I never got that ball. For all I know, it never left the stadium. But it didn’t matter to me.
If you said that I was the closest to a hero that I would probably ever be in my entire life, you'd be right. But it wasn't because Frank Thomas knew how to hit a ball. It wasn't because the White Sox would go on to win the game or because they would be my favorite baseball team for the rest of my life. It was, however, because you taught me more than a silly, little baseball game. You taught me a way of life. Dad, you were always the only hero I wanted to be around.
And no matter what, I knew, even at five years old, that baseball would be the one language the two of us would always share. No one would be able to take us in a debate of The White Sox versus The Cubs. We could always find a common ground where we could talk about how Ozzie Guillen is the best manager that we have ever seen and what a new center fielder could do for our team. We could talk about how pitching is like life and that AJ Pierzynski is part of the spark that keeps our team thriving. Our team. That’s what baseball is; that’s what the White Sox are. They are ours. They are our own secret language. It is the one bond you couldn’t possibly break because even if the ball didn't land in my mitt that day, my passion did.
