I had a choice to make. I could either go to the Canton Illinois Park District city championships and
represent Isaac Swann School in checkers and knock hockey, or I could to Chicago to see the Cubs play in Wrigley Field for the very first time in my life. My dad gave me this decision to make as I lay in bed at Graham Hospital, where I had been rushed three days earlier with a high fever, racking cough, and violent body tremors. For a ten-year-old boy that was a tough one. Being rushed to the hospital was a much more common occurrence for me than winning checkers tournaments on the playground, and after that, on the same day, having the best run of luck in my life on a knock hockey board and sweeping that contest as well. I had been in the hospital many times before, and this only happened once.
Did I mention two very cute high school girls, who worked for the Park District during the summer and
ran the program at local park, were crowded around the bed as well? And they were begging me to stay
in Canton and go for the glory?
They didn’t stand a chance. It was 1969, and the Cubs had their best team of the twentieth century. All my heroes were on that team. Kessinger led off, Beckert came next, then my favorite Billy Williams followed by Ernie and Santo. Hickman and a member of the Committee (Oscar Gamble, Paul Popovich, Don Young, Al Spangler and Willie Smith) in the outfield with Sweet Swingin’ Billy and Randy Hundley catching and batting eighth, with Fergie on the mound.
It wasn’t just the team. It was riding on the El, standing the whole way watching the city pass before me, walking from the platform down to the sidewalk and beholding the stadium, the biggest building I had ever entered – clutching my father’s hand tightly in fear of separation and marveling at his bravery – the beckoning sounds of the organ and the men shouting, “Get your programs here!” and the smell of beer and popcorn. The cold steel of the turn style smacking me in the jaw as I passed through.
My father could only afford the cheapest seats, and to a boy my age, nothing could be better than
sitting at the very top of the grandstand. The adults might have complained about the pillars blocking the action and the roof creaking and leaking, but to me the view was priceless, so high above ground. I don’t think I watched much of the game, instead I turned to gaze out of the stadium and saw the bigger world spreading out before me. I realized that day my biggest hero was the guy who bought my ticket and popcorn and made sure I didn’t get lost as we navigated the crowd.
I’d like to thank my dad for being my hero on Opening Day. He had to wait 89 years, but he lived to see his beloved Cubs win it all. For those of you who think being a Die Hard is about wins and losses, think
again.
