No. 266 – Tie Dye on the Highway

Performer: Robert Plant

Songwriters: Robert Plant, Chris Blackwell

Original Release: Manic Nirvana

Year: 1990

Definitive Version: None

It had been well-known by the start of the season that 1990 was going to be the last season for Comiskey Park in Chicago. The owners of the White Sox more than went out of their way to let the place rot in hopes of getting a gleaming new profit-maker. Sufficiently cowed, the powers that be gave them what they wanted in 1988, starting the clock on the demolition of the venerable yard.

Comiskey, of course, was the oldest ballpark still standing, having been built in 1910. It also was the site of the first American League game I ever saw, in 1988 with Jim. It was a perfect baseball-trip target for me and Dave. We already had made it to London, Ontario; Toledo; and Columbus (and Detroit, of course), so why not make it to Chicago for the grand finale?

I said I’d get tickets. The final game on a Sunday was sold out, but I got us tickets for Saturday—the final night game. Then Dave came up with an even better idea: Why don’t we try for press credentials to the last game?

Why don’t we, indeed. There was one problem though: We weren’t sportswriters. Yes, but we ARE journalists who work at a daily newspaper. I was dubious: What’s our story? Dave had it all figured out. He would write a general-interest feature for sports; I’d be the photographer. I had a nice camera and could take a decent picture, but I was no professional. What the heck, all we had to do was get inside. Sure enough, Dave landed two press credentials.

Fortunately, we had free room and board—we decided we weren’t going to charge The Journal for anything—at my sister’s apartment. Jin had moved off campus with a friend of hers from Columbia to a standard-issue Chicago apartment in Rogers Park. She had enough floor space for two baseball-loving pilgrims.

We arrived Friday night, but the adventure really started Saturday. The first order of business was a card show in my old stomping grounds of Herald City. Actually, it was two shows—one in Elk Grove Village and the other in Arlington Heights.

I don’t remember buying anything, although I’m sure I did. The big deal was that at the Arlington Heights show, Milt Pappas and current White Sox pitcher Greg Hibbard were signing—for free. They were parked at a table, with hardly anyone paying them any mind, so Dave and I were able to talk to them for a while. I had Milt sign a 1965 Topps card, but I had nothing for Greg, so I had him sign the back of a Journal business card I had.

From there, we headed back into the city, to Wrigleyville to check out row of cool stores on Addison. After making a few purchases, we hiked around the stadium. A dumpster was parked just outside the right-field bleachers on Sheffield. We looked at each other knowingly and climbed up to see what was inside.

All we saw were stretches and stretches of sod. I gasped, and I think we both realized at once what we were looking at, although I said it first. “That has to be from the yard.” Yes, we were looking at actual discarded turf from Wrigley Field. What better souvenir to take home than pieces of Wrigley Field itself? OK, we have to stop back and grab some before we head out.

We continued our tour around the stadium, and again paused when we got to the left-field bleachers. On the bricks about 3 feet off the ground was a black rectangle with an X in it. This time, Dave figured out the deal. “It’s a wiffleball strike zone.” Really? Yeah, stand next to it. Sure enough, the lines hit about my shoulders and knees.

By this time, Dave and I were big-time wiffleball players outside his apartment building in Grand Blanc. We played to the point where Dave kept a bat and ball in the trunk of his car … just in case we got the urge on any of our trips. Playing a little wiffleball outside Wrigley Field? Are you freakin’ kidding me?

We went back to Dave’s car, making sure to grab some sod out of the dumpster. Soon we were playing wiffleball on a seemingly deserted Waveland Avenue with Wrigley Field as our backstop. It doesn’t get much better than that, right? Except it did.

After a while, three guys about our age ambled along, saw what we were up to and asked to join in. These guys had some stories. One claimed he played Tony in Bull Durham. Dave and I looked at each other skeptically. He resembled Tony about as much as I resemble Robert Redford—I’m white and blonde, although I’m about a half-foot taller. Yeah … I suppose if I squint and use my imagination …

To amuse ourselves, Dave and I played along. One of his friends said he had a 1987 World Series ring from his cousin, who played for the Twins. I can’t remember which one, but it wasn’t Kirby Puckett; it was some scrub, maybe Mark Davidson. Yeah … OK.

Well, whatever baseball ability “Tony” and “Mark Davidson’s cousin” had was absent that day. We played a few innings, and Dave and I were well ahead when we called it quits. Needless to say—but I’ll say it anyway—the Wrigley portion of our day-night doubleheader bore much fruit.

Then it was time for the nightcap—the paid game at Comiskey. The White Sox were playing the Mariners, which meant we got to see Ken Griffey Jr. and a few other Wonkas. My grueling duel for the Flint Rotball League title was coming down to the wire. Unfortunately, two of them were Matt Young, the Seattle pitcher who blew a 2-1 lead in the 7th, as well as Mike Jackson, the Seattle reliever who added fuel to the fire. I’d led the whole year, and I was going to blow it at the end. Great.

Our seats were way up in the ozone, but we were there. Alvin Davis hit what turned out to be the last homer at Comiskey Park to give Seattle an all-too-brief lead, and the park had good energy all night. That energy was plain after the game when they turned out the lights for the last time.

Finding that there’s nothing more fun about running a baseball team than squeezing out every last buck, owners Jerry Reinsdorf and Eddie Einhorn ruined the lights ceremony by making it part of a sponsored contest. So, instead of having the oldest living Sox player or fan or Luis Aparicio or ANYONE WORTHY of flipping the switch, they handed the duties over to a woman who was something of a professional-contest-enterer who hated—yes, hated—baseball.

She won and real fans lost. The boos cascaded down from the stands in a deafening roar as she was introduced—and not just from me and Dave. The Sox had Nancy Faust play the team’s informal theme song, Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye, but that worked only a bit. A pall fell over the proceedings. Comiskey Park deserved better than this garbage.

However, the day itself had been glorious, and we still hadn’t reached the main event of the weekend.