My grandfather spent much of his
retirement watching Cubs games on WGN. His comfy armchair faced a 19-inch black
and white television in his apartment on Rascher Avenue, less than three miles
from Wrigley Field. He went to games occasionally but mostly opted for Jack
Brickhouse’s play-by-play in his “box seat” just off Clark Street. It came
with a kitchen, a refrigerator stocked with Schlitz beer, and a private
bathroom.
My wife’s grandmother took her and her
sibs to Cubs games, where they sipped her home-brewed unsweetened Kool-Aid and
built lasting memories. Maybe my grandfather didn’t like other people’s
children. Or maybe he overdid it with the Schlitz at the games and grandma intervened
to shield us from that lasting memory.
Or did they only serve Hamms at Wrigley? Well, when you’re out of Schlitz,
you’re out of beer…
Although he never took me to a game, he
did bring me a pin that he got at the ballpark on Ernie Banks Day in 1964. I
still have it. I knew that Ernie was a legendary player, and I recall six years
later filming his 500th home run with a Super 8 movie camera
pointed at an instant replay on TV. As you might imagine, the quality is awful.
You can barely read “Hey Hey” flashing at the bottom of the screen. My dad
thought Ernie was pretty special.
My dad loved the Cubs. I associate his fatal
heart condition with the colossal disappointment now known to sports historians
as simply 1969. He played baseball as a young man and taught me the basics in
our small backyard in Park Ridge. Recently my son thanked me for passing on
those skills to him and my daughter Melissa. Eric was playing on a Tucson team
recently where he noticed a severe lack in the areas of throwing, catching, and
hitting. You’re welcome Eric and Melissa. Thanks, Dad!
The truly strange thing that occurred
at my father’s funeral will hopefully not be repeated at mine. Please consider
this the eulogy-equivalent directive of a living will. The minister who was
recruited (drafted you might say) to say a few words at Dad’s service
interviewed us for a few minutes the day before. I guess we mentioned sports because
it became the epitaph for my father’s life.
“Carl, lover of baseball.”
My mom, sister, and I did double takes
at each other, grief-stricken, appalled, and on the verge of a much-needed
uncontrollable burst of laughter. What the heck?!
Autographed Twice - Click to Enlarge |
But back to Park Ridge and more
pleasant memories. My then-living dad surprised me one evening in 1965 by
suggesting that we go meet Ron Santo at the grand opening of his new pizzeria.
I was ten and Santo was 25. Both of us were children, I realize now that I look back,
sprinting toward home in my third 25. But he was a celebrity, a baseball star,
a golden glove, and a genuinely nice guy. We would later find out that he was
already suffering the effects of insulin-dependent diabetes, but that night he
came out of the kitchen at Santo’s, smiling and wiping the flour from his
pizza-making hands on a dusty white apron.
“Are you a Cubs fan?” he asked me.
😎
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