White Sox Fever
October 20, 2005

I do not claim to have baseball running in my veins. My dad was not the “take me out to the ballgame” kind of guy. There were eight in my family, and the food budget got first dibs; private tuition took the second chunk of the paycheck. Our entertainment allowance did not stretch to include family field trip to Briggs/Tiger Stadium. Later on, riots and urban decay conspired to keep us north of 8 Mile in the hot Detroit summers.

I remember my first trip to major league baseball, however. Shrine of the Little Flower had a paper drive to subsidize parochial school costs. The classes with the highest weigh-in would be bussed to an afternoon game. Our class pursued this goal with feverish intensity, and one damp spring afternoon, we found ourselves in bleacher seats to witness the Norm Cash-Al Kaline-Rocky Colavito magic. They were not a good team, mind you, but the players had some personality. I can still remember the peanut-beer cologne and the damp musk that impregnated the stadium. A new field has replaced it these days, but the citizens of Detroit cannot pull the trigger and demolish their old park. I think it is because for 40 years, since racial tensions scattered Detroiters to the suburbs, the concrete and bleachers were faithfully trying to lure folks back. The Tigers never vamoosed to the burbs, though they were courted. Now Tiger Stadium is discarded, but appreciated for its historic run and fidelity.

And so I do not take lightly what this magical White Sox season will mean to my men. Since the boys were tots, they have traipsed with their Dad to the the palace on the southside. Their pasts are woven with black and white memories: Matt on the field for the last game at Comisky, Pat being a ballboy in Florida while witnessing Michael Jordan’s tryout (wearing an Ozzie Guillen jersey, if I recall), Mike taping an inning of play-by-play as WMAQ’s voice of the Game. Our safety deposit box holds tickets from the first game at New Comisky. There are also hundreds of everyday game moments, shared with a dad who wants a touchstone for the boys to take forward and pass on. It thrills me to see the often-contentious man-circle close with joy.

I am on the side, however, because this event does not require my limited knowledge to interpret. Baseball is a show to me, with good food. For the men in my world, it is a metaphor for life. It is a unique opportunity for me to appreciate that each parent brings a unique skill-set to children. Wings and roots….baseball is one way that Dads work the roots angle that Moms generally specialize in. It is good to have a partner in creating a family history.

We are nuts with White Sox fever. Our home is embellished, the cars have decorations, our snack food is black and white. The sports sections are stacking up. I have attempted to decorate the dog by making her wear white socks. She is already black, so I thought it would make her feel included. Wrong.

Pat is winging home for the Series. He is the rabid baseball boy who ditched school in high school and hopped a plane to see Mark McGuire hit a magical home run. So what if he is broken-handed and (as of this week) job free? The White Sox are making history. He damn well intends to be here.

Matt is making good on a threat to buzz his shaggy locks (SHAMELESS PLUG) on his show Saturday 6-10,on WCKG if the Sox made it to the Series. The men in black have effectuated a change I have long dreamed of, and dare I say, prayed for.

Mike retains his acid reflux and his manic web ring of White Sox mania. To his credit, he has been able to maintain his new job at Apple Travel despite the stress of post season play. He has orchestrated an in-house pep rally, and spent much of his time on the training trip with WTMX assuring that Chicagoans would see a broadcast of the game. He transformed the disco to a sports bar. Another generation of Dahls kicks disco to the curb under the White Sox flag.

As for me, I have a White Sox photo folder on my computer, stuffed with the go-cart race, fireworks, my birthday at the park, and the boys keeping score in their seats. The wardrobes of all my men have shifted to black. The hall tree has too many Sox caps to hold. My stomach does flip-flops on game days, not because I worry about the Sox, but because I want even more magic for my men. It is amazing how quickly greed has overtaken me. I read sports columnists, and have decided to hate Mariotti with the same blood lust as the other Dahls. I am not certain if the hoopla is corrupting my soul.