Thoughts, opinions, and musings from a curious "Seasoned Citizen"

Vol 1  No.7

Dear readers, both of you.  After due consideration, I decided I was not ready to slash and burn yet and so I let my mind wander in the free style mode.  Should I dwell on my thoughts on immortality (I almost said “immorality”, there must be a lot of material of which I could kick the dirt off of, but this column is not a tell all) and “immortality” is a lot easier to deal with.  For instance I’ve been known to say I plan to live forever and so far, so good.  Philosophy 101 question; would you want to live forever, and if so, why?  The response, “why not,” is not acceptable.  I’ve been fortunate enough to do a lot of things and go a lot of places, memories stacked upon memories.  How much is enough? As a “seasoned citizen” I’ve learned to accept the fact that sometimes you’re the dog, and sometimes you’re the fire hydrant, and it can change by the minute.  It appears the iron in my blood has turned to lead in my a--.  If I’ve lost my glasses, the first place I look is on my forehead. All this has been a round about way of setting you up for one of my most significant (at least in my mind) memories.  One of the most popular movies out right now is “42” which deals with the time in Jackie Robinson’s life when Branch Rickey, the President of the Brooklyn Dodgers, reached out to the Negro American League and tapped him to break the color barrier in major league baseball.  Of course I know nothing of the upheaval and soul searching which went on in the offices of all the teams, you’ll have to trust the movie for that prospective.  What I can attest to is the day in the summer of 1947 when the Brooklyn Dodgers came to my town, Chicago, to play to Cubs in “beautiful Wrigley Field”. 

A little background.  I was in high school, and the regular entertainment for my folks and me was to take first the street car and then the bus to be first in line for the unreserved grandstand seats for at least one game every weekend of a Cubbie home stand. But this game was going to be special.  The Dodgers were coming to town and bring that guy with them. As you might expect, among the Cub fans, there were many descriptive names for that guy and none of them flattering. As you would expect, there was a perceptible air of excitement on the bus to the park and all around the entrances.  The lines got longer faster.   At that time as I recall, Wrigley Field seated about 42K. They hadn’t yet taken a big chunk of the center field bleachers to give the hitters a better background.  The whole park filled fast.  For once, as a Cub fan, you were really interested in the other team’s batting practice.  But then the ramifications of the day started to develop.  If you are from the Chicago area, and were a Cub fan you knew the crowd was going to be as white as the driven snow.  That’s just the way it was.  The “Negros” as they were known then lived on the south side and went to Comiskey Park and cheered for the White Sox.  In this case it was north was north, and south was south, and never the twain shall meet.  With that background being understood, you can imagine the murmur and restlessness which spread through the stands as people who normally habituated Comiskey Park suddenly started to filter into Wrigley Field.  I guess it was sort some of sign of civility in that there was no race baiting or catcalls which I recall.  Very soon, all the standing room was taken, the stairs each had two or three seated on them and the ramps between levels were packed.  I don’t know it as a fact, but there is no doubt in my mind Wrigley Field was splitting at the seams with attendance now up into the mid 50K’s.  The venders loved it even though moving around was tough. 

The Cubs took the field, the Dodgers came up to bat and then it started. A cacophony of cat calls and jeers erupted from both sides.  The “N” word and all it’s variations were hollered out from all over the stands, and, at the same time, cheers of ‘Jackie, he our boy” and “honkies” came just a quickly and just a vigorously.  Neither faction asked or received any quarter. Politically correct hadn’t been dreamed up yet. I can’t tell you who won or lost the game.  I do have two lasting recollections; Robinson was as fast as his billing had led people to believe, and, more amazingly, with all the venom, beer and adrenalin flowing. I recall no incidents of fights or weapons. When the game was over everybody went home and got ready for the next day.  That was a long time ago and a really different time.

At least that’s the way I see it.

Charlie