A fictional Story

[BobDylan]

This is only the introduction to a story I'm writing, but I posted it because I feel there are some posters here that can relate.

 

My name is Roger.

 

I've been a White Sox fan for as long as I can remember. It has brought me and my father close together. It has been the cherry to all my friendships. And even though the twenty five men playing in the World Series this year don't owe any respects to the fact that their franchise hasn't been to the World Series since 1959, and hasn't won the World Series since 1917, simply being there means a little more then just playing a baseball game.

 

In the year 2000, I attended game two of the American League Division Series, an offensive juggernaut of a team that wasn't very good to speak the truth. Comiskey Park was filled to the brim, exploding of hope and dreams that maybe this was the year. But when the ballgame ended, the White Sox lost and though they had one more game to lose, the dreams were over. I sat somewhere in the upper deck, pants past my ankles, a jacket covering my hands and a bright red nose from a ridiculous October cold. I can remember when the final out was recorded, the crowd rose from their seats and a collective sound swooped through the stadium, "Whoooosh!" I'm not really sure anyone really meant to make any sound, not with their mouths or anything, but that was the energy of forty thousand people exiting into the air. It gave me chills, and I'm still a young person. Maybe you'll know what I mean later.

 

I looked at the old man sitting about two rows in front of me get up from his seat, grabbing his seat cushion and tucking it under his brittle old arm; his eyes were filled with tears. He must've been at least seventy five years old. Born thirteen years after his team last won the championship, old enough to have seen them in only one World Series.

 

They say it's just a game, but baseball isn't like any other game I know of. It's a sport that brings people together, it's a game that got a country through a war. It's the game that has brought me to love my father. Stephen King once wrote, "Baseball is the only game God approves of." It's not just a silly game, it's a way of life, the bearing to a fruitfulness that can't be had in any other way.

 

That old man was trying to gain a sense of completion, he's an older version of myself. He lasted seventy five years only to see the 1959 White Sox lose in six games to the Los Angeles Dodgers. Forty six years later, if he's still alive after 2000, he has another chance. His life can be brought to a rainbow that he perhaps couldn't imagine, a form that only a simple bat and baseball can bring fourth; maybe an evocative of his youth, the times of insignificance and eternity. He'd be somewhere around eighty if his old heart was still ticking, thinking of names like Luis Apparacio, Minnie Minoso, Jimmie Dykes, Al Lopez, Nellie Fox, and Luke Appling.

 

 

 

I don't remember the year I went to my first baseball game. It was sometime back in the 80's when Old Comiskey Park was still around. I was so young I couldn't tell the difference between the two teams that I cheered for both of them, clapping my young hands for each hit, each run and each strikeout. I like to think of that game as the single greatest moment of my life. My dad buying me Coke's and nacho's and hot dogs. A foam finger on my hand, a tiny little White Sox cap on my head, covering a shaved and naive blonde head. We walked into the park together, him holding my hand as I looked up at numbers marking sections, people turning corners in every direction, beer vendors selling beer, and men yelling, "Programs! Get your programs!"

 

Years later I found myself sitting on various couches with my father growing up and watching names like Bo Jackson, Jack McDowell, Carlton Fisk, Ozzie Guillen and Robin Ventura. Him lying down with a beer sitting on the coffee table, myself clutched in my arms living and dying with every out, regardless of what chances the team had at winning a pennant. And each out was recorded, every run was scored, every home run was sparkling. As I've grown a little older with each minute, the games seem more like a time stamp on my life rather then something I simply care about. It’s a reminder to keep living. Maybe next year.

I've lived a life of depression and misery. I have thrown away more friendships then I've held on to. I sometimes can't tell the difference between right and wrong, seeing when a person loves me and when they don't. I've made people who love me, hate me. I've thought about suicide until the fear of death has become nauseating. My stomach has crumbled in my throat and my eyes have been the visual of such thought most people do not know how to imagine.

 

I cried when the White Sox won the pennant this year. I was reminded of all the great times I've had with my father and my friends, the lasting impact people have had on me because of a simple game. I even managed to think about all the people I threw out of my life, whether I wanted to or not. And I cried. Tears puddled my eyes and fell onto my face, onto my shirt, onto my misery. It felt that seconds of depression were escaping and all the hardships I have given myself seemed to be worthless just for a small fragment of time. The White Sox won the pennant.

 

I can't tell you that the White Sox are going to win the World Series and that old man will see a dream fulfilled, but I can always remind myself of the time I saw the White Sox win the pennant, and the time I thought about them winning it all.

Edited October 22, 2005 by BobDylan

[UC76]

Nice job. I enjoyed that.