Summer 1975 Comiskey Park

Bridgeport, Chicago

One of the things about growing up lower middle class in the 70s is that as a kid you don’t realize you’re lower middle class, or even poor, you think you’re just like everybody else. I thought this way except for a few notable exceptions, we didn't have an above-ground pool like a few of my friends, my dad only bought used cars, and the biggest of all, we had a black and white television set. It didn’t bother me all that much until you went to your buddy’s house and watched Scooby-Doo in color and your head imploded. The colors seemed so vivid, so alive. The Scooby-Doo Mystery Van with its aqua blue, avocado green, and orange seemed so vibrant my eyes seemed to pop out when it came onscreen.

Seeing the Brady Bunch for the first time on a color TV really blew my mind. I wasn't prepared for how blonde Cindy’s hair was, or the azure blue of Alice’s uniform. There were only glimpses for me, usually at a friend’s house, while waiting for them to go out or occasionally staying for dinner. I would pester my father relentlessly afterward, pleading that a color TV was essential for a family nowadays. He just shrugged most of the time and said “Maybe one day, but right now is a bad time, we’re broke” I was too young to really come to grips with the idea of financial hardship. It didn’t occur to me that my father paid a mortgage, car loan, insurance, and put my brother and me through Catholic school, all on a very meager salary. My preteen mind just couldn’t understand why there wasn’t enough money to go around. Even though this was long before the internet and social media, I had FOMO, I definitely saw what other kids had and I was jealous. It seemed like everyone had better, cooler, newer stuff than I did. Of course, that’s a typical self-absorbed kid kind of thing to think. I never focused on all the things I did have, only on the things I wanted.

My father, who was not a very big sports fan, announced he was going to take me to a White Sox game one day. Now my father was from Puerto Rico, where baseball is immensely popular, but my father seemed indifferent to sports, so it struck me as odd that he wanted to go to a baseball game. Later I found out he got the tickets for free from a guy he knew at work. I was excited to actually see a baseball game in person, I had only watched them on our rickety black and white tv. But in the meantime I began preparing, I broke in my new mitt, I practiced catching pop-ups in my backyard with my brother, just in case a foul ball came my way. My older brother also would throw the ball at me as fast and as hard as he could, he wanted to make sure I was really ready, either that or he wanted to hit me which he did a few times. What would we do without older brothers?

Growing up in Bridgeport had few advantages, but there was one, you could walk to Comiskey Park, which is exactly what we did. In fact, I can remember trying to keep up with my dad, he always walked like his pants were on fire. My short chubby legs had a hard time keeping up. Once we got to 35th street and saw all the people walking to the game I started to get nervous, crowds scared me, and I remember grabbing my dad’s hand, I didn’t want to get lost. As we approached Comiskey Park, the enormity of the place rattled me. I had seen it on TV many times, and we had driven past it many times as well, but being right in front of it, it seemed so enormous, and so white, like brand new t-shirt white.

When we walked into Comiskey ballpark, the first thing that hit me was the smell, stale beer mixed with peanut shells, popcorn, and hot dogs that had been sitting in hot water too long. There was actually a fire that started under the right-field stands from a popcorn machine, but I didn’t know that at the time. I stayed close to my dad, for some reason I was terrified of getting lost, I think I had watched too many after-school specials. My dad grabbed my hand and sort of led me along, I kept staring at everything, it all seemed so hectic, there were people everywhere, buying souvenirs, getting food, buying beer, there was a long line to get beer, and it made me wonder why. My father had let me taste his beer once and I spit it out, it was the most bitter, awful taste ever, and I couldn’t imagine why people seemed to want to drink it so much.

My dad led me up a series of ramps that climbed steadily upward, it seemed like a long way, and I kept thinking about how massive this place seemed versus how it seemed on tv. My dad seemed to know where he was going, I don’t know how, he had never been there before, but he had a sense for these things. At last, we came to a new area, with a few food and souvenir stands. My dad walked over to an usher and gave him our tickets and he directed us to a small opening, with another ramp leading up. We walked towards it and as we turned the corner, the field came into view.

At the top of the ramp, I stood transfixed holding my dad’s hand, staring at the field. It was so green, I had never seen it like this before. The June sky was so clear and blue, the Kansas City Royal's powder blue uniforms, the deep green turf, the White Sox red pinstripes, I had only seen the uniforms on baseball cards before, never in person. It seemed like the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy goes from black and white to color, it was sort of like that. I was shaken by the brilliance of colors before me, my dad had to pull me, I was staring with my mouth open, the colors were sending my young brain into overload. The ballplayers seemed so close, unlike tv where they seemed so distant. I just kept staring, the Royals were warming up and the people in the stands were jeering at them, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I’m sure it wasn’t very nice. White Sox fans were notorious for their brutality. One time I went to a game with my friends, someone wore a Cubs hat in the Comiskey upper deck seats, they yelled for him to go home. When the guy turned around and asked who said that, the whole section raised their hands.

My father had an intense pride for anything Latino, especially Puerto Rican. When they announced the lineup my dad got pissed that they pronounced Jorge Orta’s name like George instead of the Spanish pronunciation, “Hor-hey”. He would mumble in Spanish underneath his breath when angry, I usually couldn’t make out what he was saying, I just nodded. He loved Chi Chi Rodriguez, a golfer who had a signature move when he made a putt. He would do a sword dance with a golf club, my dad loved it. Plus Chi Chi was Puerto Rican, always a plus. If there was a famous person that happened to be Puerto Rican, then my dad was a fan for life, regardless of talent. Every time a famous Puerto Rican would be on tv my father would smack me and say “Did you know they’re Puerto Rican?” Of course I always did because he had told me fifty times before.

When we sat down, my dad asked me if I wanted a hot dog, the hot dog guy was near us, with the stainless steel steamer around his neck. Of course, I wanted a hot dog, so we got two, mustard only, and a couple of sodas. Those hot dogs weren’t very memorable, they were probably sitting in stale water for a long time, the buns had been steamed but still tasted stale, but we ate them like we hadn’t eaten in days. We just kept eating, stopping every vendor that walked near us, ice cream bars, peanuts, my dad got a beer, I felt ill after a few innings. It struck me as odd though, my dad didn’t like a lot of that food. He didn’t really like sweet things but had a soda and an ice cream bar. I know he didn’t like hot dogs either, but he ate two. My dad didn’t really go for junk food, he wasn’t judgmental, it just didn’t appeal to him. It didn’t occur to me until later that my dad was just trying to fit in, trying to be one of the guys, a normal dude. He did that for me. These things never occur to you when you’re a kid, I wish they had.

I always felt self-conscious about my dad when I was little. He had an accent, he didn’t like the things other dads did, he didn’t drive as nice a car, he dressed differently, he didn’t act like other dads, he was quiet, reserved, soft-spoken. Although when angry he could be loud. I don’t know why this mattered to me as a kid, he just seemed different. I was aware of one thing, he worked hard, I mean very hard. He worked a full-time job, and in his spare time worked on fixing up the house or the car. Sometimes he would do yardwork for our older neighbors, of course, I would have to help. I remember asking him one time why he never just took it easy and sat on the couch, watched tv, drank beer, etc. He told me he didn’t like to sit around, he liked to be busy, and besides the work had to get done somehow.

Around the seventh inning, I was feeling kind of ill from eating all the ballpark food and wanted to leave, the White Sox were up by 1, and George Brett wasn’t playing very well. My father said no way, he wanted to watch the entire game. He did get me a 7up which he assured me would help my stomach, it didn’t. He kept asking me questions about the players, he assumed I knew a lot more about baseball than I did, but I did watch a lot of games on tv and collected baseball cards so I did have some answers but not many. He was especially interested in the Latino players, and where they were from.

When it was time to go he grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd, there were so many people, and I was too short to see what was in front of me, everyone seemed so tall. But we made our way outside and walked home in the early summer dusk. 31st street was packed with cars leaving the park, much to the delight of my father, who reminded me how much time we saved by walking. We walked past neighbors sitting outside in folding chairs, kids playing on the sidewalk, muscle cars blaring Blue Oyster Cult, kids speeding down the street on their bikes, and little kids driving around us in their Big Wheels. I could smell my mom’s cooking from the gangway as we approached the back door, even though I wasn’t super hungry, my mouth started watering in anticipation anyway. Mom was sitting on the back porch with her diet soda, reading a romance novel, and when she saw us she asked who won. I told her the White Sox won and she said she heard the home run fireworks go off, and figured that was a good sign.

I walked inside, made my way to the living room, and flopped down on the couch, I figured I could watch the Odd Couple before dinner. I always thought that black and white tv was a curse but it taught me to see and appreciate things in a different way. Eventually, my father broke down and bought a color tv, and my brother and I were ecstatic, we literally jumped up and down. I think we watched tv for hours on end just to see what our favorite shows looked like in color. Just like most things, a few months later the novelty wore off and we just took it for granted and moved on to the next thing.