My father’s birthday is Tuesday and I looked all over town for a musical card that played “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I couldn’t find one so this will have to do.
My dad was a North-sider who had given up on the Cubs. And when he couldn’t take the team’s perpetual lousy level of play* any more, the Chicago White Sox became his team. He took a lot of heat for it.
*(“They stunk” was my father’s exact quote.)
“Sometimes you’ve just got to take a stand,” he told me the other day when I asked him why he had changed allegiance.
But by the time I was born, he loved the White Sox more than anything. And since I loved my dad more than anything, I loved them too. I knew what a three-two count was before I could walk. According to my baby book “Go Go Sox” was my first sentence.
My earliest memories of my father are inextricably tied to the Sox. My father talked about Al Lopez so much and so passionately that I thought he was mayor of Chicago. And Bill Veeck? Easy. Bill Veeck was the president of the United States.
WCFL, the “Voice of Labor,” was invariably on the radio. Bob Elson was in our car and our house so much that I came to think of him as an uncle.
But not a rich uncle. That title was reserved for “Friendly” Bob Adams of Household Finance. Whenever I heard him he was always offering to lend somebody cash. I never heard of anyone so generous. I knew he must be made of money.
And of course I remember going to the ball park. About once or twice a summer my dad would take me all the way to Comiskey Park for a twi-night double header.
Edens Expressway was a mere gleam in some politico’s eye when we first started these jaunts. But the long ride was worth it. The sights- row upon row of white seats, the sounds- vendors crying “Cold Be-ah!” and the smells embraced us as we entered those hallowed halls.
What could be better than a balmy summer night and all the hot dogs, peanuts, and crackerjack that you could eat?
I was in heaven. I loved it all.
And I loved the ballplayers, too. They were magical figures to me- larger than life. Once when Minnie Minoso got hurt crashing into a wall, I sent him a get well card. It was my first fan letter.
The ’59 team was legendary. Catcher- Sherm Lollar. First base- Ted Kluszewski. Remember his arms? According to park lore, they were so big that he had to cut his sleeves to make room for all those muscles.
Second base- Nelson Fox. Playing shortstop- my hero, Luis Aparicio. I adored Little Louie and still treasure my Aparicio-autographed baseball and trading card.
I remember Billy Goodman at third. And Sammy Esposito.
And in the outfield, two big Jims- Jungle Jim Rivera and Jim Landis.
And pitchers? I can remember seeing Billy Pierce. And of course, the best-named pitcher there ever was- Early Wynn
Many sports fans today complain that baseball is too slow. But that’s what made it perfect for near-sighted little me.
I had no trouble following the action. If pitchers’ battles moved at a snail’s pace, it was fine by me. More time for an extra hot dog. Extra innings? No problem. More time alone with my dad.
He taught me how to keep a box score. He told me all about legendary plays that he had seen. He answered all my questions about stealing bases and dropped third strikes. And he never ran out of patience with me- or the team. He was a good sport.
Dad had to be a good sport about one other thing, too. As I kid, I was terrified by loud noises. I loathed and feared fireworks. So we always had to leave the park before that darned exploding scoreboard went off. It might have been the only bad idea Bill Veeck ever had.
The year the Sox won the pennant- 1959- I was almost ten and at a perfect age to follow the race. And even though I didn’t accompany my father when he got the thrill of a lifetime and attended his one and only World Series game with my (real) Uncle Jack, I would smuggle a little transistor radio into school and listen to the games on tiny headphones.
After the Sox lost, I lost interest. Maybe I was just starting to grow up. I only know that suddenly the Everly Brothers were a lot more important to me than Bob Elson.
I left the White Sox in my father’s safekeeping. Where they are to this day. He’ll be ninety-three Tuesday and he still avidly followed his “Go Go Sox” throughout this season. But I just outgrew it, I guess.
But every once in awhile, if the night is balmy and the breeze is blowing just right, I can shut my eyes and be back in a sweet world where Al Lopez is mayor of Chicago, Bill Veeck is the president of the United States and my father is the center of the universe.
What a delightful reflecting memory and and birthday gift for your Dad!
Thank you for letting us in on such a special time~
Abbie
Thanks for the memories! As a South Sider,
my family were avid Sox fans. Growing up,
my brothers and I spent many happy years
going to the Sox games with our Grandfather
and parents.
Minnie and Luis were my all-time favorites.
I loved the score board when it lit up ! It was
exciting!! Very happy times!
Please give your Dad a big birthday hug!!
Lovely memories – 35th & Shields was my field of dreams too!
From my friend Bob Vanderberg, former sportswriter for the Tribune:
“You know, back when General Finance first came into our White Sox baseball picture, there were only four or five offices in the Chicago area, and a General Finance office MIGHT have been pretty hard to find……… but that’s not the case anymore, because now there are over FIFTY General Finance offices in Chicagoland. You probably pass one on your way to work every morning. Stop by at the General Finance office in your neighborhood, and get acquainted with the manager and his staff. They’re there to serve you, and to GIVE you, the best service in the country…….. on a loan (voice fading)…….. Remember that loan-by-phone number………AN-dover three … two-oh……. two-oh (barely audible)………
“We’re at the end of three innings here in Chicago, the White Sox have one run on three hits, Warsh-ington no runs and one hit,,,,,,,,, this is Bob Elson saying goodbye for a little while, and here’s Don Wells…”
and then, later:
“If you’re bothered tonight by this kind or that kind or any kind of a money problem, large or small … WHOever you are and WHEREever you are, help is just as close as your telephone. Just call Friendly Bob Adams at ANdover 3, two-oh, two-oh, tell him how much you need and WHEN you expect to stop by ….. and then, whenever you do, at any one of the FIFTY General Finance offices in Chicagoland, your money will be ready …and waiting (voice fading)…. That loan-by-phone number again, ANdover three … two-oh….. two-oh ………..”
then there was something about “the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker..” And “You’ve probably heard it said that love makes the world go around. But when you think about it, you’ll have to agree that it’s pretty much borrowed money that makes the world go around….”
I love this! Thanks for the great addendum, Fred.
Ah, Ernie left us recently and now Minnie is gone. Wonderful baseball icons for the North Side and the South Side of Chicago respectively – both great ballplayers, and both great ambassadors for the city of Chicago.
I was born in Evanston in 1941, but my family moved to Alabama when I was very young in order to be near members of my mother’s family. While in Alabama, I learned to love playing baseball (or some juvenile version thereof), but there were no major league teams in the South and so I did not identify with any Major League team. All that changed when we moved back to Chicago (Glencoe, actually) in late 1950. After years of mediocrity, the era of the Go-Go White Sox began in 1951, and Minnie Minoso was the major catalyst. I fell madly in love with the White Sox (and I still am!) and Minoso, and Nellie Fox and Billy Pierce and Jungle Jim Rivera, and the list goes on. Oh yes, and I loved Bob Elson, too. I must have listened to about twenty million of his broadcasts. I especially remember that when a member of the White Sox hit one of their rare home runs, Elson would always say “That’s a White Owl wallop and a box of White Owl cigars.” That was long before the days of outrageous baseball salaries, and I suppose a box of cigars was something of a reward, but how comical it sounds in this day and age!
R.I.P. Minnie. We will miss you…..
Thank you for this beautiful elegy. And the terrific Bob Elson quote. They graced my post, Bill.
Ellen, I don’t believe that I saw this wonderful blog when originally posted. It’s truly a lovely tribute to your dad, our Sox and of course Minnie (Orestes). I have parallel experiences embedded in my history with my dad and he chose me over my mom to attend game one of the ’59 series. I did hound him incessantly and my mom was a good sport. This was my favorite White Sox moment until 2005 when I attended all of the home playoff and WS games (even the one on a High Holiday- no Koufax moment for me).
I am entering my 31st year as a season ticket holder now and there is a square brick on the 3rd base line (just up from home plate) in the 2005 championship tribute infield and sculpture wall in front of the main entrance to the park. It says, just above my name, “SOX, my religion since 1959”. For me, my favorite moment when going to games with my dad (and still) was when we would emerge from the concourse into the box seats and catch that first glance of the vast and sacred, wonderfully manicured grass stretching from the 3rd base line to the outfield walls…so green, so beautiful.
Vaya con Dios Orestes y GO SOX!
This is just great, Gary. There’s just something about baseball and the White Sox and fathers that all adds up to “Field of Dreams.” Nice brick, btw. And si si. Vaya con Dios, indeed. Thanks, pal.