THERE was a special air of excitement during batting practice at quirky old Comiskey Park on that August day in 1972. And not just because the White Sox were in a rare pennant race. Wilbur Wood, a retread, roly-poly knuckleballer on his way to another 20-win season, was scheduled to pitch both ends of the doubleheader. Memories of Caray
and dad are soberingIt didn't happen. Wood, who normally threw on two days' rest, got knocked out of the first game against the Yankees in the seventh inning, before Harry Caray even got to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
But the White Sox earned a split in dramatic style when Dick Allen homered off of Sparky Lyle with Mike Andrews on to win in the bottom of the ninth, setting off the scoreboard fireworks, and keeping the Sox within striking distance of the Oakland A's -- who they were destined not to catch.
That's all I remember about the actual games that day. I was 11 and my brother was 9. The real highlight was meeting Harry Caray. The circumstances, however, were, to be honest, a lowlight.
MY dad had gotten drunk with Caray a week before in a Chicago bar. So, after several of those big baseball stadium beers, he decided that his boys would also have the pleasure of meeting the White Sox play-by-play man.
About three innings into the second game, there we were, standing outside the press box, with Dad pounding on the door insisting to speak to Harry Caray, who was working, broadcasting the game.
Caray came out, and boy, those big lenses were steamed up. He was ready to pound somebody.
But, then, when he saw two little baseball fans, he melted.
He amiably introduced himself to me and my brother with that big goofy smile and that big goofy voice.
Then, I remember he and my father exchanging a few choice words, most not fit for a family newspaper -- nor, probably, the ears of 9- and 11-year-old boys. But this was before the days of political correctness. At the time, Joe and I thought it was kind of cool, our dad and Harry Caray nearly coming to blows during a White Sox game.
Eventually, they both cooled down, Harry Caray went back to work and we went back to our seats like nothing had happened.
Hey, strange things were routine at Old Comiskey.
BUT the older I get, the more I think about that day -- and it's not about Wilbur Wood or Dick Allen. And the thoughts are somewhat disturbing.
They're about my father, Harry Caray, and alcohol. It was booze that brought my father and Harry Caray together at the bar, and it was booze that allowed two awe-struck kids to meet a baseball legend.
But it was also booze that had at least a little bit to do with my father's early death, at age 48, just 10 years after that bizarre meeting with Harry Caray. Dad never got to read something I wrote as a professional, nor play with Joe's kids.
My brother and I both like to imbibe. It's quite possibly part of your lifestyle when softball is your No. 1 hobby and you were a teen-ager in Hawaii when the drinking age was 18.
But as we age, we think twice about popping open that next beer.
Despite what all those commercials imply, we know it's possible to be a sports fan and not drink yourself silly at every game you attend.
Most of the world will remember Harry Caray as a lovable drunk who brought the joy of baseball to millions. And that he was and that he did.
It should also be remembered that it is a rare metabolism that allows a person to consume as much alcohol as Caray did and to live as long as he did. And it is a rare personality that can consume as much alcohol on the job as Caray did and get away with it.
Let's do raise a glass in memory of Harry Caray, who in many ways represented the best baseball has to offer.
But let's pace ourselves.
Dave Reardon is a magazine editor and freelance
writer who has covered Hawaii sports since 1977.
He can be reached via the Star-Bulletin or
by email at dreardon@hmsa.com.
