When I first read that the Tribune was soliciting readers’ favorite memories from the past century, I thought I was hearing the voice of a particularly cruel college professor with another impossible assignment. I was born in Chicago in 1954 and have lived here my entire life. I suppose I could talk about living on the South Side during the turbulent 1960s or about meeting President Clinton during the 1996 Democratic National Convention, but every time I tried to summon another memory, I kept thinking about some big game I had gone to.
My favorite memories from my half of the 20th Century in Chicago revolve around the fortunes and misfortunes of our several sports teams. Some of my earliest memories include riding on the “L” train with my dad and grandpa to see the Bears play in cold, windy and snowy Wrigley Field (they got pounded!). My parents took us kids to Comiskey Park to see the White Sox play on numerous occasions. Once we sat in the picnic area and chatted with Minnie Minoso while he warmed up in the outfield. When I was 13, my brothers and I went to a Sox doubleheader that was interrupted by the scoreboard information that Neil Armstrong had just landed on the moon!
My dad also took us to see the Blackhawks play at the Stadium. I guess I was pretty young because I really only remember the huge blue cloud of cigar smoke that hung in the rafters and the booming organ music.
The Stadium was also the scene of numerous college doubleheaders that my dad took us to see. These included Loyola playing UCLA, which had a center named Lew Alcindor. I’ll never forget standing outside Gate 3 and watching that huge man walk out!
Throughout my youth, my dad took us to Notre Dame football games. He had seats in the end zone near the top, but I always felt like we were sitting on the 50. We would pack up the station wagon and pull into the parking lot about three hours before the game, fully prepared for some serious tailgating.
As I grew older, I naturally went to games with my buddies. We watched the White Sox religiously during the Bill Veeck era. We went to most of the Bears games the year they won the Super Bowl, and a large contingent got on a chartered plane to New Orleans to watch the Bears destroy New England.
We would also go to see the Bulls occasionally, but the Stadium was a depressing place to watch pro basketball before Jordan arrived. By the time Jordan came to Chicago, I had already reversed roles with my father. Now I was the guy with the tickets, and I gladly took my dad along to games whenever I had the chance. He was there with me at the last game at Comiskey Park and the first game at the new Comiskey.
We went to many Bulls playoff games and to several games in the NBA finals. Probably my favorite sports memory was being at Game One of finals against Utah in which Jordan hit the winning shot at the buzzer. I was there with my wife, my daughters and, of course, my dad.
There have been many events in the history of our great city that were more significant than any of the games that I went to with my dad, but my most precious memory is sitting next to my father on the “L” train heading up to watch the Bears play. He was a young father of eight children with tickets in his pockets and a thermos of coffee in his hand, and I was a young man who thought that sports was everything.
I guess I haven’t changed all that much. Thanks, Dad.
