At least we saw some fireworks.

(Chicago, IL) My friend Joe Rochetto and I had every intention of attending Saturday night’s game featuring the two Sox: the hosting Chicago White Sox vs. the visiting Boston Red Sox. Always a great match-up, particularly late in the season with the Red Sox vying for a Wild Card slot in their hotly contested AL East division. Yes, the White Sox appear to have the AL Central wrapped up, but they need to stay focused on the prize, and, so we marched off from the Monastery of the Holy Cross, where we had attended Solemn Vespers with the monks and the angelic singers of Schola Laudis, to witness a great baseball game. Did we have advance tickets? Nah. We were gonna just throw ourselves on the mercy of the box office and come up with a couple of ducats for say $12 a pop, somewhere near the foul pole in right field. Well, as were approaching what Guaranteed Rate Field, aka Sox Park, we saw fireworks, signalling that a White Sox batter had hit a homerun. A White Sox batter had indeed hit a homerun, and were we there to witness it? No, but we were close. And we were close to attending the remainder of the game until the ticket agent informed us that the only seats left were in the gold section and were selling for $87 a piece. Too rich for our blood, so we retreated back to the monastery over at 31st and Aberdeen from the ballpark at 35th and Shields. We were hoping to find a friendly place in which to view some of the game on a sports channel, but we found no such place. So we headed for home and tuned in the game on the radio. We were thrilled to hear the White Sox come back from a 7-2 deficit and actually go ahead to make it 8-7. But when Joe dropped me off at our dump in the dunes at 10 EDT, the Red Sox had evened it up in the eighth to make it 8-8. I listened in hopeful silence on my recliner as the Red Sox scored a run in the top of the 10th and the White Sox put men on the corners in the bottom of the inning, only to have the next three batters fail to drive them in and win the game. But, as we said, during our long, fruitless march to and from the ballpark, “At least we know the Sox will win.” We just didn’t know which color sox the winners would be wearing.

So close, and yet so far. This was from a previous season when the right Sox won that night game.

About charleymckelvy

Charles McKelvy lives and writes in southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow writer, Natalie McKelvy. They established the Dunery Press in 1988 in order to publish their own fiction. They continue to do so to this day. Charles McKelvy is an Eagle Scout.
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