My father turned 83 this year. Four years before he was born, the White Sox won their second World Series, against the Giants (they had beaten the Cubs(!) in 1906. The Sox lost to the Reds in 1919.
When I was born in Chicago in 1949 (my Dad, a Minnesota farm boy, was going to school on the GI Bill), the Sox had not appeared in a Series for 30 years, and the drought was still young.
I was ten in 1959, living in Tokyo, when the White Sox made their next Series appearance. I remember getting up before dawn to listen to the games on the US Army’s Far East Network, a crystal radio under my pillow.
1959 had been a year of pitching, stolen bases, and one-run wins for the Sox, but they opened the Series with a bang, beating the Dodgers 11-0. Sadly, they only had another 12 runs in them, and lost in six.
I’ve never been much of a base ball fanatic, but it’s a game that marks our lives anyway.
In the Sox’ last Series win in 1959 (Game 5) they beat Koufax and the Dodgers 1-0. Last night’s game was a nice echo.