Now, with just one more trip to the old ballpark remaining, my childhood is coming back to me, more vivid than ever.
I remember the ”L” rides, from Oak Park to the Loop and then out to the South Side, the ballpark`s light towers coming into view, the Englewood-Howard ”L” pulling into the Tech-35 station.
I remember always feeling excited about passing through the turnstiles, getting an ”official” scorebook and then walking up the steps and seeing the field, the infield of which usually was covered with a tarp.
Because it always seemed to be raining, or at least overcast, on the South Side. After all, what was a Sox game, I always figured, without rain or the threat of rain?
Whenever I went to Wrigley Field, once a year or so, the sun always was shining. And the place was usually empty. The Cubs were kind of silly. The games meant nothing.
But the Sox? Serious stuff. Pennant races. Big crowds. Lots of noise. Close games.
Nellie Fox, Chico Carrasquel, Minnie Minoso, Billy Pierce. Then, later, Luis Aparicio, Jim Landis, Gary Peters, Juan Pizarro, Joe Horlen, Ken Berry. Pitching, speed, defense. Ninety victories a year.
Then, everything changed. I got older. The Sox got awful. Pitching, speed and defense were forgotten. The Sox became the silly team. Instead of Fox and Aparicio and Pierce and Landis, I looked out onto the field and saw O`Brien and Chappas and Scarbery and Jeter.
Instead of 90 victories a year, the Sox gave us 90 losses.
Instead of the classic pinstripes of the `50s and `60s, with the black caps and the Old English S-O-X on the left front, the Sox gave us pajamas and then softball uniforms.
Oh, there were a few good years. Like 1977, when the Sox-I think they were the Sox-won 90 games with no pitching, no speed and no defense but hit 192 home runs. And 1983, when they won 99, mostly by hitting home runs onto the roof. The only balls the Sox of my youth hit onto the roof were fouls.
I try to forget the seasons after, say, 1985.
And then, when it was made clear 1990 was to be the last year in the old park, I remember feeling sadness, because I realized I never would again see the place filled with people, cheering for an exciting, winning club like the ones of my childhood.
But in this, the final summer of Comiskey Park, the `50s and `60s returned. The Sox were a winning team again. But, more important to me, they were the Sox again, winning with pitching, speed and defense, as the design of the park had dictated so long ago. Low-scoring games, the Sox winning most of them. Ninety-plus altogether.
Just like when I was a kid.
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And then, just this week, the whole dream season became complete. The Sox took the field wearing black caps and pinstriped uniforms, with the long-missing Old English S-O-X on the left front.
You know, I think I`ll remember this season more than any of the others.