Performer:
Robbie Robertson
Songwriter:
Robbie Robertson
Original Release: Storyville
Year: 1991
Definitive Version: None.
When Dave and I went to the
grand finale at Comiskey Park in 1990, it was our first baseball excursion to
Chicago. It certainly wasn’t our last. When you have a free room—or a free
floor anyway—it makes such a jaunt easier.
Dave and I didn’t make it to
the first game at the new Comiskey Park when it opened in 1991, or any other
game there that year. So our next Chicago trip was to White Sox fest in January
1992, when Storyville was cementing my relatively newfound love of Robbie
Robertson’s solo material. (A quick aside and a spoiler: With the exception of
the version of Coyote by Joni Mitchell that she played at The Last Waltz—good
ol’ No. 444—no song from Robbie Robertson’s old group made this here list.)
By this time, I was in the
throes of White Sox love—particularly after another cakewalk title by the
Wonkas in 1991 due to the contributions of my new favorite player, Frank Thomas.
Dave’s favorite A.L. team was the White Sox, so it made perfect sense for us to
attend the winter bash.
Jin, too, had chosen the Sox
as her Chicago team, so she was more than happy to have us come visit. One
problem: She no longer lived with her friend in Rogers Park. Now, she lived in
Wrigleyville in a three-bedroom apartment with two roommates who were not
friends but just plain roommates. So Jin had to get permission to have two guys
crash on the floor—particularly because we’d have to sleep in the living room.
Fortunately, she got the thumbs-up, and our Chicago junket was a go.
White Sox fest was great.
Jin came along, and all three of us were decked out in our White Sox finest.
After we paid the admission—something like $10 per, as I recall—autographs were
free. My target was my main man, Frank. I wanted him to sign my o-feeshul Rawlings
White Sox home jersey, No. 35, like Frank, which I bought with my winnings from
my 1991 Flint Rotball title. Frank was scheduled to do two signing sessions,
one hour before lunch and one hour after.
The line was already a mile
long, perhaps literally, when Frank began to sign in the morning. The line
weaved around at least a dozen iron barriers. We dutifully entered the carousel,
but it moved slowly, so slowly that it quickly became apparent that Frank would
finish his hour while we still were in line and end up getting Ron Karkovice
instead.
So I came up with a genius
idea: Let’s go get some lunch and come back in an hour, a half-hour before
Frank is scheduled to start signing again. That way we’ll be in perfect
position for when he starts his afternoon session.
The plan worked perfectly
except for one thing: When we got back into line, still as long and moving as
slowly, Frank already was signing. Wait a minute … what’s going on here?
Well, we found out that
Frank stayed the entire time we went to lunch. Instead of working two shifts,
he did it all at once. AUGH! If we only stayed in line, we would have secured
his autograph! Now … well, what else can we do? We weren’t going to get out of
line a second time.
Sure enough, just as we were
about three carousels away, Frank, who had smiled practically the entire time
as he worked the crowd, got up to leave. AUGGGGGHHHH!
Instead, we got new White
Sox manager Gene Lamont and White Sox legend Minnie Minoso. I had Lamont sign
my Soxfest program and Minnie my White Sox cap. It still was cool, but I had my
heart set on Frank, and I blew it. About the only thing that could console me,
partially, was spotting an Oscar Meyer wienermobile parked outside the Hyatt
downtown. Jin and I posed for a nutty picture opportunity, but I knew a bigger
opportunity had been missed.
Unlike someone else that
fateful weekend, my screams meant things were bad.
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