Gary Wolfson

I wrote the following piece the morning after the White Sox swept the 2005 World Series against the Houston Astros. _

This is a photo of the actual program from the first game of the 1959 World Series at Comiskey Park that my dad and I attended. He stapled the ticket to the cover for me to keep as a souvenir. I faithfully continue to do so (and have also kept my program and ticket from Game One in 2005).

I remember the train rides, mitt in hand as I headed into the city where my dad would be waiting to drive us to the game. I remember his stories about Luke Appling, Ted Lyons, Zeke Bonura and Monty Stratton. I remember ascending the concrete stairs of the ancient concourse to reveal that magnificent expanse of  green that was the field.  

I remember the right field bleacher seat next to my dad for Game One of the ‘59 World Series. I remember him waking me that morning and telling me my mom had given up her seat so I could be there.

 I remember Joe Nossek, a bit player for the Minnesota Twins, tossing me a ball circa 1965. I remember my dad showing the movie, The Babe Ruth Story, at my 10th birthday party, and I remember Sox rookie Dave DeBusschere attending my 12th.

I remember scrapbooks and autographs and cards and neatsfoot oil and transistor radios late into the evening. I remember calculating batting averages, winning percentages and ERAs long before such skills were taught in school.  

I remember missing Gus Giordano’s dance class to listen as the Giants’ Willie McCovey’s screaming line drive found the Yankees’ Bobby Richardson’s outstretched glove to end the ‘62 World Series.

I remember my grandfather telling me how  Charles Comiskey,the “Old Roman,” would eventually let him and other waiting friends into the Southside Ballpark around 1905 as they “might have had a nickel to spend on a hotdog.” 

I especially remember when a White Sox victory could make everything that was wrong with the world seem right... It happened again last night.