We laughed and loped west. The city was on fire emotionally for these galoots called Cub fans. Cars honking, sky rockets, flags a waving. When we finally figured the historical nature of the day, we knew baseball history; we were a part of baseball history. We were young, but we weren’t dumb. It still didn’t match Buddy Bradford hitting it over roof on wet April night at Comiskey Park beating the KC Royals. 12K there were blessed, me and someone that may smile on reading this remembering a too small wool blanket.
What could possibly top that experience?
We extolled in the infield-fly-rule of society going wild, we were 20 miles from home, 12 years old, with 4 bucks between us of hard earned grass cutting cash in our pockets to get home. We instinctively knew we needed each other through all this craziness we were experiencing in the baseball energy dome. We got lost once earlier in the numbers to letters education process. We laughed a lot that day, when we realized we were Spy's in the House of Love. I still love to stand as a resolute Chicago White Sox fan and state to an assembled troop of Cub fans and say with Truth and Profundity, “I was at Holtzman’s no-hitter.” Once again speaking for Frankie, RIP. He splitting a gut in the spiritual world laughing at Cub fans, and me splitting a gut laughing at Cub fans in a material world. That's were we get our energy.
35 yrs later I returned to Wrinkly.
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Beisball 2020*
Opening Day*
Pitchers and Catchers*
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