by Wayne Lerner

Fast ball. Down the middle. Crack! Hard liner to the third baseman. Heck! Out again.

It was the summer of 1957 and I was spending most of my time playing baseball in the alley. Our field was defined by the garbage cans on the left and right protecting their wooden garages in which the owners’ beat up Chevy or Buick lived. No foreign cars were ever seen on our streets unless the driver was from another neighborhood and had gotten lost. The cans were a challenge as they were constantly filled with so much rotting trash that the flies buzzing around would interfere with catching a lazy fly ball. Home plate was the wall of the tire factory which emitted the toxic smell of burning rubber from early morning to late at night. After an inning or two, however, you got used to it. No outfield fence, just the end of the block which seemed to be a 100 miles away.

If we didn’t play ball in the alleys, we played pinners against the front-stoop with a pinkie or fastpitch against the factory wall. What we didn’t want to do is hit our only league into the yard of Mr. Hardwick, who had Baron, the meanest German Shepard you could imagine on patrol. Baron drooled with desire when he saw us come near, the dream of tearing off a piece of our skin or even a finger or two making him crazy. 

One June day, my Mother got a call from Uncle Howard. He worked for his Uncle at the Coady Brothers Meat Packing Company located in the Fulton Market District. Uncle Howard asked if he could take me to my first professional ball game at Comiskey Park. He knew that I loved baseball and the White Sox. I was so excited when I heard the news that I ran around the apartment whooping and hollering. 

Fulton Market housed many meat, seafood and produce firms throughout the 18 and 1900’s. Visitors to the Market could be overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise produced by the truck and car traffic and the disgusting smells which hung over the area. Men in their dirty overalls, with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, screamed out customers’ names to deliver their orders. By 3pm, however, the silence would be deafening as the clean up crews quietly scrubbed the shelves and aisles and washed the floors to get ready for the 6am start the next day. 

Coady Brothers had season’s tickets which Uncle Howard frequently used. I didn’t know it at the time but the company supplied all of the meat to Comiskey Park. Thus, the brothers had access to the Owners’ private dining area, the Bard’s Room, and a special relationship with the owners, manager and coaches of the team.

Early the following Saturday, we got into my father’s 1955 Chevrolet to meet Uncle Howard at the Market. He had stopped there to prepare a special order to take with him to the game. Uncle Howard was putting a large brown wrapper package in the trunk of his white Bonneville as we rolled to a stop. Much to my surprise, I saw my cousins, Myra and Alan, in their Dad’s car. I didn’t know they were going but I was thrilled. I liked them a lot and now knew I would not have to talk to Uncle Howard all by myself for the whole game. I jumped in their car so excited that I don’t think I even said goodbye to my parents.

We went south on Halsted until we reached 35th and then turned left. Comiskey Park started to come into view. It slowly flooded the front windshield with its arched windows and immense, white structure. Uncle Howard pulled into the lot right next to the stadium and parked near gate three, the home plate entrance.

Uncle Howard greeted a man in a blue suit and handed him the brown wrapper package.

“This is for Al,” He said. “Please make sure to give it to him before the game.” We went through the turnstiles and began to climb a large set of stairs. As we approached the main concourse, the smells permeated our senses. Popcorn, caramel corn, hotdogs, french fries, hamburgers, grilled onions, beer. Almost anything you could imagine was being prepared in anticipation of the big crowd that day, as the Sox were playing the Yankees. The Sox were in second place, 4 games out of first.

We walked through the entry portal and, as we did, the field revealed itself before our eyes. I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the stadium. 

“I knew it was big but not this big,” I said to my cousins. They just laughed. “It’s your first time, isn’t it? Every time we come here, we get the same feeling.”

My eyes followed the long main aisle which separated the lower boxes from the upper ones. The box seats surrounded the entire field until they met the outfield walls. I could see the outfield seats stretch from the left field foul pole to the one in right. A towering second deck spanned the entire park, except for centerfield. The upper deck seemed to be hundreds of feet high, reaching almost to the sky. In centerfield, above the bleacher seats, was the main scoreboard.

Uncle Howard’s seats were in box 58, the first row below the main aisle, just to the left of the screen, right behind home plate. I was in awe. I stood there, immobile, taking in the sights, smells and sounds and oblivious to everyone around me.

I had brought my mitt to the park in the hopes that I could catch a foul ball. Given where our seats were, there was a slim chance that could happen. I would have to be ready as any foul ball coming towards us would be a piercing line drive off the player’s bat.

“Are you ok?” Myra said. “What’s the matter with you”

“He’s fine, Myra.” Alan laughed. “Leave him alone. He’s gone into that dream world of his. He thinks he is a major leaguer. He’ll wake up when the hot dog guy comes around.”

I watched the players taking batting practice and playing pepper along the sidelines. Some of them were doing stretching exercises on the field as both teams were warming up for the competition that day. I was so close that I could hear them talking to one another. Sometimes, they would swear out loud if they missed a ball thrown to them or a ball pitched to them in the batting cage. Every so often, they would spit out this black stuff from the wad in their mouth and then go back to chewing whatever it was.

“Gross,” I thought. “But I guess this is what you do when you get to the majors. I wonder if this is something they learn in the minor leagues. Gross.”

We saw the hot dog guy and were getting ready to eat when Uncle Howard tapped me on the arm. “Come with me, I’ve got something to show you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Something was up,” I thought, “but I had no idea what. Was I going into the Bard’s Room and maybe meet the owner? Or was he going to introduce me to one of the retired players who were now working for the Sox?”

We went to the aisle just to our left, took a right turn down the steps and approached the brick wall separating the seating area from the playing field. On my left was the White Sox dugout, along the third base side. The Yankees, the dreaded Bronx Bombers, were warming up on the first base side.

As we drew closer to the wall, I saw the metal gate which led from the seats to the field. We stood there for a moment when an Andy Frain usher came over to us. After shaking Uncle Howard‘s hand, he opened the gate. We walked out onto the field where Uncle Howard introduced me to, of all people, the manager of the White Sox, Al Lopez. He was talking to his coaches about the Sox lineup. 

My heart stopped. 

“Al Lopez! I’m on the field at Comiskey! And he’s going to talk to me!” I thought.

My hands got sweaty and my throat was dry. “Don’t faint,” I said to myself. “This will never happen again!”

“Al,” he said, “this is my nephew, Wayne. He’s never been to a professional baseball game before but he’s a big Sox fan. I thought we should give him a little thrill.”

Mr. Lopez just smiled at me and said, “We will certainly show him a good time today because we’re going to beat the Yankees badly.“ 

I just nodded and smiled but couldn’t talk. I was paralyzed with excitement. 

He called over to one of his coaches who walked me into the dugout. 

There was Little Looey, Luis Aparicio, Nellie Fox and even Billy Pierce.

I could barely breathe. This was a surreal moment for me, seven years old, in Comiskey Park, in the dugout, talking to my heroes. I knew that I would never, ever again have this opportunity to be around professional ballplayers. I was a chubby, nerdy, average athlete who would never graduate from the alley league.

All of a sudden, one of the younger players grabbed me by the jersey and said, “Follow me. We have a job to do.“ He guided me to the outfield where there were dozens of baseballs from batting practice lying on the field. “Your job, with these other boys, is to pick up all the balls and put them in the baskets.” 

I learned later that the other kids were the sons of the coaches or the players who were used to having access to the field and interacting with all the players. This was certainly not the case for this kid from the west side.

I started to pick up the balls and put them in the basket. Every so often, I stopped to look around the park as people began to take their seats. I imagined what it would be like to be a ball player, standing in the outfield, awaiting the pitch and getting ready to move at a moment’s notice. No sir. I was not in the alley trying to get away from Baron, the boy eating dog, or the hundreds of garbage can flies.

I was in my little dreamland again when I heard a voice coming from my left. There was “Jungle Jim” Rivera, waving off everyone so he could catch the batting practice flyball. An outfielder, normally, today, he was playing first base.

“Hey, kid, “he growled, “Wanna catch one?”

I stood there paralyzed, unable to move. I looked around the double deck park which was teaming with people. The sounds ringing in my ears and the smell of the grass and the food overwhelming my senses.

“Kid, “he hollered, “get your ass over here ‘cause there’s another ball comin’ off the bat.” 

I ran next to Rivera knowing, with trepidation, that there was no way I could make that catch. My eyes are terrible and I couldn’t judge where the ball might land. In the alleys and on the fields at Columbus Park, I played first base because all I had to do was catch the occasional pop up and the throws from the infielders. I could do that.

Time after time, fly balls were hit and, as the balls came down, Rivera moved away to try and let me make the catch. Time after time, I missed. Actually, I was fortunate that I didn’t get beaned trying to catch the major league fly balls.

Finally, Rivera grabbed my Sox jersey and pulled me next to him. We stood there and watched a ball rise from the fungo bat at home plate to reach its apex just below the top of the upper deck. The ball was hit to mid left field, far from the wall behind us.

All of a sudden, he ran to his left and then started back. He jerked forward because he realized that the wind was coming from behind him, pushing the ball towards home plate. He stopped quickly and hollered, “Stand right there!”

I stopped thinking. I stopped hearing. I stop smelling. I stopped doing anything because I looked up and the ball was coming down right where I was standing.

“Put your glove up now! “he yelled. As I did, the ball smacked into my mitt with the same sound every pro hears when he makes a catch. It didn’t just sting, it hurt more than I could ever imagine. The ball landed right in the mitt’s pocket, the area with the least amount of leather. I let out a scream. My hand pulsed with pain so great that I was sure I couldn’t even hold a hot dog any time today. I needed ice. Now!

Jungle Jim roared with delight when I looked into my glove and saw the ball. My legs turned to jelly and I felt like I was going to collapse. For a moment, I really had no idea where I was. The sights and sounds of the park went blank. Then, Rivera grabbed me by the arm and started to walk me back to our seats. As we approached the left field foul line, he stopped, looked down at me and smiled. ”Think it’s easy to be a pro, kid? Welcome to the bigs!” 

Uncle Howard met me by the gate with the usher and they escorted me back to my seat. My cousins were there with big smiles on their faces because they knew that this was my once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

The game progressed that day and we ate our way through the nine innings. I don’t remember whether the White Sox won or lost but it really didn’t matter. I was a White Sox fan, I was at my first game and I caught my first major league ball.