World Series memories are about as plentiful as surfboard rides for a Chicago native.
There are some, but unfortunately they all occurred elsewhere.
I was a 4th-grader when the White Sox and the Dodgers teed it up here in 1959, and the transistor radio Sister Pietrina graciously let me sneak into class at St. Cajetan’s was as close as I got to Comiskey Park.
Eventually I had the good fortune to find my way into a job that involved occasional Series exposure, and that is a perk. Television’s insistence on prime-time starting times has turned the Series into a nightmare for newspaper deadlines, but it’s still the best sporting event there is.
As far as memories go, Bob Welch facing down Reggie Jackson in Game 2 of the 1978 Series at Dodger Stadium was very cool, although Jackson’s Yankees came back to win the Series and “Mr. October” got the last word by taking the insouciant young Welch deep in the clincher.
Kirk Gibson’s game-winning home run off Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 in 1988 is one of the all-time World Series moments. What I remember best is Eck standing by his locker afterward and answering every question put to him, calmly and patiently, the epitome of a stand-up guy.
The next year Eck’s Oakland A’s were at it again, against the San Francisco Giants in the Bay Area equivalent of White Sox-Cubs, only it wasn’t. Didn’t generate anywhere near the passion a Chicago City Series would, and it became darn near irrelevant when the ground shook with such ferocity before Game 3 on Oct. 17, resulting in heavy damage and loss of life throughout the region.
Commissioner Fay Vincent made the wise decision to “have our little game step aside” while the devastated area implemented a recovery plan, and 10 days passed before the Series resumed.
When it did, at a Candlestick Park that had come through the ordeal surprisingly well, a moment of silence was observed for those who died. Then a military band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” workers from various rescue agencies tossed out ceremonial first pitches, and the crowd got to its feet and sang along as a local theater troupe belted out a high-spirited rendition of “San Francisco.”
If I hadn’t believed in the healing powers of baseball, I did then.
