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In 1968 the Chicago White Sox, starved for fans in their hometown, agreed to play ten games a year in County Stadium. It was another coup for Bud Selig, the car dealer and up-and-coming baseball entrepreneur. I saved up money from my Journal route, and bought a single ticket, lower grandstand, for each of the games. I'd ride the #30 Jackson-Downer bus, transferring at Capitol Drive to the Stadium Freeway Flier and the thirty-minute ride west. Through the open window I could smell the Ambrosia chocolate factory as we went by, the rising loaves of the Wonder Bread plant, the sweet pungence of the Red Star Yeast factory, and the smoky hops of the breweries: Schlitz, Miller High Life and Pabst Blue Ribbon. The Harley-Davidson plant belched smoke, and so did the steel foundry of the Falk Corporation's factory, where they made the giant gears for mines, bridges and ships. We passed the vast rail yard of the old Milwaukee Road, and the bars and auto repair shops of Pigsville in the Menominee River Valley. The bus slowed, daylight faded, I pounded my freshly oiled glove, and the banks of stadium lights came into view.
The first year of the "Chilwaukee White Sox," the crowds at County Stadium were big. I sat amidst them, by myself, smacking my fist into the deep pocket of my Rick Monday glove, always ready to pounce on the foul ball that never came.
The next year, 1969, T and I went to the games together. We'd sit in the upper grandstand, our programs rolled into microphones:
T: "This is Red Rush..."
Sandy: "And I'm Bahhhhhhb Elston, with your Go-Go White Sox!"
T: "Hey, friends, for all your insurance needs, call Friendly Bob Adams, at Andover three, two-oh, two-oh."
From our announcer's perch in the upper deck, we could look beyond the outfield bleachers to the Johnston cookie factory and its flashing red lights: "Cookies, Crackers, Candies, Chocolate." Farther south stood the giant clockface of the Allen Bradley company.
"The largest four-faced clock in the world, Red, in case there's anyone out there who doesn't know this important big-league fact about Milwaukee."
"That's right, Bob, even bigger than Big Ben in London, England!"
The crowds were thinner that year, and after a few innings we'd try to sneak down into the first few rows behind the ChiSox dugout. Just as I was into the Braves, T was into his White Sox: Carlos May, Bill Melton, Wilbur Wood, Leon "Daddy Wags" Wagner, and Walter "No-Neck" Williams, a five-foot six-inch fireplug whose head appeared truly buried inside his shoulders. All game long I'd keep an eye on the sausage-shaped Patrick Cudahy Hot Dog Scoreboard, scanning for news from Atlanta.
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