Baseball Reverie

Ode to a lifelong White Sox fan

Baseball Reverie

Munetaka Murakami woke up the White Sox 
twelve homers just in time for May
Dad watched and forgot his name, his  heroics
night terrors, a soft hum, the lost wisdom of dreams
in the morning he is Lewis
at night he is Clark
if Lewis and Clark had lost their way
with an indefatigable Shoshone

For me it is highlight reels
the kids say I live like I’m poor
legs spread, a swift swirl of arms
I make a mess of a sandwich, peanut butter and honey oozes
over the edge and I don’t care anymore sticky fingers darkened by dirt
and the self-loathing taste of dirt

You don’t call anymore
I had to learn for myself I never believed I could
balls and strikes sore elbows Coors Light gleaming
that time I went to console the bereaved
crashed my bike in the gravel
blood poured from my knee like stigmata
if they had nailed Christ in the knee
those sons of bitches and I
just stood in the outfield
blood-blooming polyester
Jesus! What kind of call was that? 
call any time, call any time

I have a dream I reaching back for wisdom
from the driver’s seat of a ’63 Corvair
in the back Dad is humming a tune
about the uniqueness of grief
the statistical improbability of twelve homers before May
Missouri River dirt on my fingers
To Helena and back, Dad hums
flat bottom boatfulls of regret
plans fallen through, planes fallen, the smell of sweat
some kid without a name walking the ditches to school
from the dream-car rearview mirror hangs a key
the one Dad had to turn on the lights at the city park for night games
my dirty hands on the wheel, driving to Chicago
staring into the retreating night ashamed

Oh, Munetaka Murakami, drive me home in the ninth
my father is not me, I am my father
he can’t remember your name
drive me home, drive me home

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For a little while this season, we White Sox fans had one of those fleeting magic moments. Our new hotshot Munetaka Murakami was the MLB home run leader to everyone’s surprise. As I write a bit later, Kyle Schwarber of the Phillies has pulled away now with 20 homers, but Murakami still has a respectable 15. I wrote this when he led the pack with 12.

I didn’t grow up a White Sox fan. For me it was George Brett and the Royals. And it was hard to avoid the Cubs with their minor league team here in town and Harry Caray always on cable at friends’ houses. I wasn’t very diligent about following baseball. In truth, I still only dabble, but my fondness grows over the years.

Dad was always a fan. He loves baseball. His endless dedication for a team that’s tough to love rubbed off on me in some vague past. Oh, sure, their championship in 2005 didn’t hurt to win me over. But Dad saw it all since the 50s, when I assume he became a fan. They were good back then. But even when the White Sox were awful – which was a lot of years – he’d read the box scores over his daily Wheaties and talk about them to no one in particular as we ate breakfast.

In 2009, we had an extended family trip out to Michigan. Mom and Dad and my older brother’s family all went to a White Sox game on their way. I don’t think Dad had been for many years, and I don’t think he’s been since. Can you imagine this luck? It was July 23, 2009. Mark Buehrle pitched a perfect game. Dad was there to see it. At one point in the later innings he leaned over to my brother and said something along the lines of “I think we’re seeing something special here.” I’m so glad he got to see that.

His memory is fading now, not his loyalty.

Coda