It's a piece that has been written about for years by columnists and sport writers. Entire books cover the very subject of the experience.
A day out at the ballpark. And for me as a kid, going to 35th & Shields on the Southside of Chicago with dad was nothing short of heavenly.
Dad had worked two jobs for quite sometime, so catching up with him at a game was most ideal for both of us. He didn't have to worry about me asking him why he had to work so much, and I didn't have to worry about him reprimanding me. Dad simply was able to be a dad. And I, a kid. What made our trips to Comiskey Park so genuine was the spontaneity. Dad would decide the day of the game if we were going to go. It was as though dad was able to be a kid. He also made sure we rode in style, hopping on his Honda motorcycle heading up the Dan Ryan expressway.
The arched windows, the distressed facade and the smell of warm beer from discarded Miller Lite cans. It was all Comiskey. It wasn't so much the game itself, rather the allure of being able to be less than 50 yards away from some of baseball's greats. Since those carefree days of taking in an afternoon game with dad, I now have my own son who is interested in the game. So the passion persists. While all relics that pointed to a more tranquil game have long vanished, the corner of 35th and Shields still remains. As long as that tiny intersection on the Southside of Chicago stands so will my reverence for a game that is over a century old.