White Sox, Black Jacket

Imagine my surprise at living long enough to see the White Sox win a World Series.

Years ago I used to go to Comiskey Park in Chicago, the old Comiskey Park, I mean. They tore it down fourteen years ago.

It was a great place to watch a ball game, but the one problem was that it was way out in a remote corner of the South Side, and that could be a problem. Especially when Carlton Fiske was catching. He called a great game, but he was… well… methodical. When Fiske was behind the plate, you could count on being there a minimum of two and a half hours, which, on a warm night, could add up to a lot of Heilemann's Old Style. Hey, they didn't call it "The World's Largest Outdoor Tavern" for nothing.

See, I lived on the far North Side, so I would have to change trains in the Loop and then go halfway across town to get home. Sometimes my bladder just wasn't up to the challenge.

Let's just say I did some things in the Grant Park shrubbery that I'm not too proud of.

But I put those days behind me a long time ago. In fact, as the Sox got closer to their ultimate triumph, I could feel the winds of change blowing across my creaky joints.

I sensed that a stage of my life was coming to a close.

Not the outdoor beer drinking stage. That one ended when "The Love Boat" was still on the air. I'm talking about the stage of my life where I can wear a motorcycle jacket and not look like an idiot.

And damned if the darn thing doesn't fit Jeffrey like it was made for him!

Kurt "big daddy" True
27 october 2005