Chicago is a cold and uninviting city during the winter months. The monolithic structures that dominate our skyline loom over streets dotted with orange phosphorous lights; silent observers who watch but never intervene. My childhood is filled with these early afternoon nightscapes. I spent a lot of time out of the house after the street lights came on.
It was taboo.
I’m familiar with the street games most kids used to play. You can see echoes of the sports they are mirrored after but it’s never quite on par. There are never enough kids and the disjointed chaos of 8 neighborhood kids running around after a soccer ball will never be confused for any Fifa sanctioned event.
But that’s how it is when you’re young. The rules matter less and the game is king. You play because it’s fun. You play because you like it. Youth sports is oft over romanticized but that isn’t to say there isn’t any romance in playing for love and happiness.
Sure, some kids are already on career paths. You knew about it at the time but nebulous terms like “booster” and “recruiter” don’t mean anything to the standard 8 year old. They are hollow words about a world that exists just beyond the youthful understanding of a barrio kid.
I ride the bus a lot more now. When I was growing up in Chicago’s lower west side, splitting citizenship between Cicero and Little Village, I was a bus kid. Public transportation connected me to the larger world outside of the bubble I existed in during my formative years. I learned on buses. I saw things on buses. I grew into the person I am today because of buses.
I rode the bus yesterday
On that bus I passed by a group of school kids, maybe 6 deep, maybe more. I passed them quickly and I only caught a glimpse of this particular bolla de ninos.
I saw kids in hoodies, protecting themselves against the 39 degree weather. I saw a baseball bat. I saw a tennis ball. I saw a pitcher and I saw a fence. I saw a batter and a saw a collection of outfielders standing on a concrete field, shagging any balls that didn’t travel the 150 feet to left field.
This is a pure and unfiltered form of beisbol. Binary as it was the spirit of the game was still present. There are outs and there are jonrons, nothing in the middle. There is no reward for hitting behind the runner or making productive outs. There is no thought, simply outcome. And fun. I saw a smile and I heard some laughter that was quickly drowned out by the roar of the 9 bus’ engine.
We live in a football dominated society. The mantle of National Pastime has long been worn by the sentries that protect the NFL Shield. This is a football city and that won’t change for many generations, if it ever does. Baseball has receded but then again so has everything else. Nothing is quite as popular as it used to be. There’s a plethora of choices out there for people to enjoy and they do. This is fine. This is how it is.
But for a moment I looked out beyond the landscape, past the decrepit buildings that dot Ashland, past the concrete parking lots overgrown with grass, I looked past all that and I saw a prism through which I glimpsed my own childhood spent in parking lots emulating Ivan Rodriguez and Frank Thomas.
I saw baseball hope.