June 10, 2007
I was Daddy’s girl without siblings until the age of ten. My father was the youngest of nine. I grew up with loads of uncles (mostly) and lots of cousins, male (mostly). So my bonding experiences with Dad were spent at Wrigley Field, Soldiers Field and the Chicago Stadium.
For a Chicago sports fan, memories of playoffs and championships are more often bitter than sweet, with the exception of “da” Bulls. Growing up in Chi-town it wasn’t a matter of whether you followed sports or not, you just chose your alliance to the north or south side as is the case with baseball. And, if like me you, recall seasons as a Cubs fan, those were years of frustrations.
When I moved to the left coast in 1980 I realized all too soon my biggest loss would be sports. California had far too many baseball and basketball teams and what could the land of fruit and nuts know about the only true manly sport, hockey? Now it’s true there was this team called the Kings, but imagine what a silly name for a team in a land where hockey would never rule.
My blessing came in 1984 when my son was born. The curse would be that my job, my obligation, was to raise him as a sports fan where Hollywood and Disneyland reigned supreme. It was my duty, nonetheless, and I would give it my best shot.
Back in the day (a popular phrase for: in the old days or when I was a kid…) it was all about "your team". Today it’s more about the venue and the event more than anything else. But I digress. So my young son and I would trek to SoCal stadiums where traffic always added another three hours to an already frustrating driving situation. Stadiums in California are an art form with palm trees and fountains, waterscapes and Chablis and tropical fruit-flavored snow cones. Of course, Jonathan was most impressed by these surroundings but cared little for baseball or hockey. He grew tired of my childhood sport stories.
For me, nothing could compare to the excitement of taking the bus and heading towards Addison Avenue and see the apartments rise up from the pavement on Sheffield Avenue while sitting in the bleachers. There were vines that were planted in the ‘30s and then there was --- the wall… and peanuts, hotdogs and cokes. Oh, and that “Take me out to the ballgame” organ. It was simple and so sweet. I grew up knowing the names, numbers and faces of Ron Santo, Billy Williams, Joe Pepitone and Ernie Banks as well as I knew those of my neighbors. Baseball was pretty much about Italians and “Blacks”. Even though there was never a post-season appearance by my Cubbies in the 50s, or 60s or 70s… they were a fans' team.
And then there was the only true sport, the game of hockey. How lucky I was to be able to tag along with Dad to the Chicago Stadium. This place was huge. (You know how sometimes your memory plays tricks on you and things aren’t really are big as you remember?) Actually it was the largest indoor sporting arena in the world. And if you thought the organ at Wrigley Field was something… As I remember the story my Dad told, this organ was built in the late ‘20s in Wisconsin and was so big, it took 24 railroad cars to transport it to the stadium. When my dad said we were going to the “Madhouse on Madison Avenue” my face would light up like the stars in the heavens! (And you really can’t know what stars look like here in Southern California). The Blackhawk’s were known to have kept the fans on their feet with fights on the ice and in the stands. Most nights I would come home with dad smelling of beer and looking like a limp piece of fish, and Dad never drank and I never ate fish) but did we have a great time. I remember the names rolling off my tongue: Balfour, Mikita, Hull (BOBBY not Brent), and being able to pronounce Nesterenko flawlessly.
1960 was a turning point in my life.
At ten years of age I would be glued to the old Black and White watching the TV coverage of the Nixon – Kennedy debates.
My mother remarried. The newly married couple moved the family to Florida. A son was born. And the Blackhawk’s would win the Stanley Cup without me. I never recovered from that season. (Thanks bro, you owe me one)!
Until Wednesday, June 6, 2007 when "my" Anaheim Ducks (first known as MIGHTY) would become the first team in west coast history to raise the Stanley Cup across the ice at the Honda (once upon an Anaheim) Pond Yeah, the names are a little more challenging today: two Neidermeyers, a Teemu Selanne, a Pronger and one Jean-Sebastien Giguere but they were our champions!
And today I turn back history and live out a dream in Southern California! There was a party at the Pond for 15,000 Duck hunters and the guest of honor was Lord Stanley. More than two hours before the fire engine arrived carrying the 2007 Stanley Cup winning team; two hours before a military helicopter would land on the streets of Anaheim delivering a cup, trophy and three of the team's most valuable players; two hours before Republican Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger would great the crowd with terminating jokes, we guarded our place at the frontline of the red carpet! Ah, what a mem
For a Chicago sports fan, memories of playoffs and championships are more often bitter than sweet, with the exception of “da” Bulls. Growing up in Chi-town it wasn’t a matter of whether you followed sports or not, you just chose your alliance to the north or south side as is the case with baseball. And, if like me you, recall seasons as a Cubs fan, those were years of frustrations.
When I moved to the left coast in 1980 I realized all too soon my biggest loss would be sports. California had far too many baseball and basketball teams and what could the land of fruit and nuts know about the only true manly sport, hockey? Now it’s true there was this team called the Kings, but imagine what a silly name for a team in a land where hockey would never rule.
My blessing came in 1984 when my son was born. The curse would be that my job, my obligation, was to raise him as a sports fan where Hollywood and Disneyland reigned supreme. It was my duty, nonetheless, and I would give it my best shot.
Back in the day (a popular phrase for: in the old days or when I was a kid…) it was all about "your team". Today it’s more about the venue and the event more than anything else. But I digress. So my young son and I would trek to SoCal stadiums where traffic always added another three hours to an already frustrating driving situation. Stadiums in California are an art form with palm trees and fountains, waterscapes and Chablis and tropical fruit-flavored snow cones. Of course, Jonathan was most impressed by these surroundings but cared little for baseball or hockey. He grew tired of my childhood sport stories.
For me, nothing could compare to the excitement of taking the bus and heading towards Addison Avenue and see the apartments rise up from the pavement on Sheffield Avenue while sitting in the bleachers. There were vines that were planted in the ‘30s and then there was --- the wall… and peanuts, hotdogs and cokes. Oh, and that “Take me out to the ballgame” organ. It was simple and so sweet. I grew up knowing the names, numbers and faces of Ron Santo, Billy Williams, Joe Pepitone and Ernie Banks as well as I knew those of my neighbors. Baseball was pretty much about Italians and “Blacks”. Even though there was never a post-season appearance by my Cubbies in the 50s, or 60s or 70s… they were a fans' team.
And then there was the only true sport, the game of hockey. How lucky I was to be able to tag along with Dad to the Chicago Stadium. This place was huge. (You know how sometimes your memory plays tricks on you and things aren’t really are big as you remember?) Actually it was the largest indoor sporting arena in the world. And if you thought the organ at Wrigley Field was something… As I remember the story my Dad told, this organ was built in the late ‘20s in Wisconsin and was so big, it took 24 railroad cars to transport it to the stadium. When my dad said we were going to the “Madhouse on Madison Avenue” my face would light up like the stars in the heavens! (And you really can’t know what stars look like here in Southern California). The Blackhawk’s were known to have kept the fans on their feet with fights on the ice and in the stands. Most nights I would come home with dad smelling of beer and looking like a limp piece of fish, and Dad never drank and I never ate fish) but did we have a great time. I remember the names rolling off my tongue: Balfour, Mikita, Hull (BOBBY not Brent), and being able to pronounce Nesterenko flawlessly.
1960 was a turning point in my life.
At ten years of age I would be glued to the old Black and White watching the TV coverage of the Nixon – Kennedy debates.
My mother remarried. The newly married couple moved the family to Florida. A son was born. And the Blackhawk’s would win the Stanley Cup without me. I never recovered from that season. (Thanks bro, you owe me one)!
Until Wednesday, June 6, 2007 when "my" Anaheim Ducks (first known as MIGHTY) would become the first team in west coast history to raise the Stanley Cup across the ice at the Honda (once upon an Anaheim) Pond Yeah, the names are a little more challenging today: two Neidermeyers, a Teemu Selanne, a Pronger and one Jean-Sebastien Giguere but they were our champions!
And today I turn back history and live out a dream in Southern California! There was a party at the Pond for 15,000 Duck hunters and the guest of honor was Lord Stanley. More than two hours before the fire engine arrived carrying the 2007 Stanley Cup winning team; two hours before a military helicopter would land on the streets of Anaheim delivering a cup, trophy and three of the team's most valuable players; two hours before Republican Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger would great the crowd with terminating jokes, we guarded our place at the frontline of the red carpet! Ah, what a mem
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