THE RITUAL 

In the 50's, a mother felt safe putting a little boy on a CTA bus by himself, especially knowing the little boy's grandpa would meet him at the other end of the trip. My mother was proof of those innocent times and her father would be faithfully waiting to meet me and I never questioned any of it.

I came along late in my parent's lives and they grew up in an era where everyone looked out for one and other. As little as five years old, I started a ritual of getting on the bus at 105th and Kedzie, where I'd start my journey to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs with my Grandpa Hoss. My mother would tell me to sit near the driver so he could tell me when to get off of the bus. The driver would tip his hat to her and say, "Don't worry. I'll make sure he doesn't miss his stop". She gave him the bus fare and turned to go back home. I would sit back and enjoy the ride as I talked the driver's ears off, as would any five year old. That was how each trip started.

Grandpa Hoss was the last of a dying breed. He always wore straw hats, the type that were fashionable in the twenties and he smoked Cuban cigars. Those white hats shone in the sun, brighter than the bald head they protected and the cigar puffed like smoke signals in a cowboy movie. I could see him blocks away as the bus approached and in time, the drivers all knew to look for that hat at 67th Street and let the kid get off.

I would get off of the bus and wait for the driver to signal me when it was okay to cross the street. My Buster Browns barely touched the pavement as I raced through the green light to meet him. Grandpa would wave at the driver and only then would the bus pull away.

These days would become a summer ritual I would never take for granted. I guarantee that I never had to be told to behave myself and mind my Grandpa. I knew it would be a long journey through the city and the ride would be hot and tiring but the reward was well more than any kid could ask for. After all, it was a day with my Grandpa to see the Cubs and have hot dogs and soda and each one of those days was an adventure all its own.

From 67th and Kedzie, the bus toured through Marquette Park. I don't care how hot of a day it was, that shaded length of 67th Street was always good for a cool breeze coming through the windows. Even if it wasn't proper for an adult to sit on the aisle, he would have wanted to so he could let me sit by the window. At that age, everything is new and wondrous and I would have hung out of the window like a dog if I could have.

The bus had to turn at Loomis Avenue and Loomis was a rather narrow residential street. I had never seen a bus turn a corner before because, as anyone growing up in Chicago knew, streets ran straight east and west and north and south. If you needed to change directions you bought a transfer, got off of the bus and met the bus going in the next direction of your trip. Buses only had to turn at specially made places for them to turn around for their return trip. As a kid sitting inside one of those behemoths, it was a real "eye opener" to see it turn and lurch around on its springs as it made its way down that narrow street.

At 63rd and Loomis, we got out and headed up the nearby stairs to the El platform. The El, short for Elevated, is a marvelous CTA train that winds through city neighborhoods. They are electric and obviously a lot quieter than a regular train, especially considering the fact that in Chicago in the 50's there were still a few steam trains left in service. That just wouldn't do.

The El was a highlight of the trip; yes, even better than the turn onto Loomis. The station was forever old and run down but still clean for as much use as it got. The platform was over two stories above the street and it was really neat being up there. Smells of cigarette smoke and cheap booze wafted up from the bar down below. It may not have smelled good to anyone else but it was the smell of the city and I was pumped and ready to go.

There were billboards everywhere. Advertizing in those days was usually a cigarette or beer ad. "Smoke Kool Cigarettes" was a popular one and featured a cartoon penguin truly looking cool as he puffed away and told everyone to, "Smoke Kool". My favorite posters though, were always the Hamm's Beer ads with the Hamm's Bear doing something outrageous.

At the top of the steps was gum dispenser. For a penny, you got an oddly shaped piece of Wrigley Spearmint gum. It wasn't like a regular piece of gum; it was short and thick. It was the perfect thing to start the longest leg of our journey. Grandpa always had change ready for such things and when it came to the gum in that machine, he always joined me. After all, it was Wrigley gum and we were going to Wrigley field. It was the proper thing to do.

I loved that ride. The El went faster than buses could go down below on the street and with the windows open, it felt like you could fly. You could see the entire city, why even the whole world from the seat of the CTA El train. It made a kid feel special, as if the world was giving way for your benefit.

At some points, it would slow down for a turn. The metal on metal would squeak at an ear piercing decibel and sparks would fly. I have to say, I really loved the turns.

Occasionally, it would pass by old apartment high rises and factories and you could see people going about their business. I would feel sorry for them because they took the El for granted. To them it was a noisy beast intruding on their lives. They didn't realize that it was the way to go see the Cubs after all and it was sad that they just didn't get it.

Then the trip took a magical turn of events. Just as we seemed to be getting close to the downtown area, the train started to go lower and lower until it was under the very world we once ruled from above. As it traveled underground it made a lot of screeching noise and sparks broke the darkness. The windows were still open but the wild summer breezes were replaced with a certain dankness I never experienced before.

Every so often it would curve a little and I could see ahead somewhat only to see a lighted platform coming close. There were people waiting to get on! What could they possibly be doing in such a place? A part of me wanted to get out and explore. What kid wouldn't want to dig around in a tunnel built for exploring? Perhaps there were remnants of an ancient civilization or old bones to be found. Those treasures would have to wait though. The Cubs were playing today and my Grandpa and I had adventures waiting for us there.

At one point he told me that the train was traveling under the Chicago River. Now, I knew that my Grandpa was a smart man, perhaps the smartest, but really Grandpa, trains can't travel under a river. Then he gave me a serious nod and told me about it in words a kid could grasp and all I could say was, "Cool"! I looked at the others on the train and wondered how much panic I could create if I told them what Grandpa just told me, but that would take time from our adventure. I would save that for another day.

Just as I got used to being underground, I felt the train start to rise and soon we were back above the city and on the north side already. A few stops later, we were at our stop. I expected a huge crowd rush to the doors and race towards Wrigley Field. To my surprise, there were more people still seated. Didn't they know the Cubs were playing today? How could they not care? Oh well, that only meant more hot dogs for me and Grandpa.

There was a short walk from the El station to the park, which went past a few taverns with the familiar smells of cigarettes and booze emanating from the open entrances. Then, like magic, we got to the end of the block and there was the marquee with the words, "Home of the Chicago Cubs" in big letters. As we neared the gate, hawkers were all over the sidewalk selling their wares. Grandpa always asked if I wanted any souvenirs, but I only really wanted a program because he said he would teach me to fill in the diagrams on the scorecard.

The Cubs in those days were always hovering around last place. Not long before I was born, they were in first place and always a feared team and Grandpa loved telling me stories of those days almost as much as I loved hearing them but these days they were only a shallow echo of the past. They gave opponents a tough game but usually found a way to lose. Their lack of success showed when you got inside the park and there was a sea of empty seats.

Grandpa, being of German descent, had fair skin and a bald head hidden under his straw hat, so naturally, he liked sitting in the lower grandstand seats along the 1st base line. As the sun got higher, we would be in the only shade in the park and the cool lake breezes were a delight on hot summer days. We had it made.

Before each game, Grandpa would walk me down to the Cubs dugout. Between warm-ups and the start of the game, players would come over and talk with the fans. People in those days didn't swarm around them, hounding them for autographs. Players were quite at ease about signing things but fans weren't as obsessed then. The real treat for me was when Grandpa would usher me closer to the fence and introduce me to Ernie Banks. Ernie was and still is a hero to me and will always be my favorite Chicago icon. He was always so good to little kids and he wouldn't go back in the dugout until he shook the hands of every kid and signed whatever baseball or bubblegum card they had. Shaking his hand was such a great thrill and my Grandpa made it happen.

Now, I know I said the attendance was low; in fact it was next to nothing in those days. However, my Grandpa was a "Man's Man" and he had a gift of gab. Other men would see the old man in the straw hat and remember him from previous games. They would change seats to be by him and soon our section of the stadium was crowded with men, smoking cigars and drinking beer. They would be talking baseball, politics and work and telling dirty jokes. I felt like I was in heaven.

They all called me, "the kid" and even though they all would be standing so they could face each other as they talked, they never neglected the kid. I always had an endless supply of food and pop. In those days, it was just like the song; peanuts, popcorn and Cracker Jack. They had it all at Wrigley Field. I always started out with two hot dogs though because for that moment in time, I was one of the men and all men had two hot dogs.

As the game would progress, Grandpa would help me start the scorecard but inevitably some guy next to me would start talking with him about the players. "When are the Cubs gonna get a pitcher?" or "When are they gonna trade that bum?" Then one of his cronies would step in and say, "Hey, somebody has to show the kid the right way to do a scorecard" and that would fire up a new debate. I loved it because in all the mayhem, my pop never went dry and snacks just kept coming. Then somebody would get a hit and it seemed like a distraction from the fun I was having. All of the men would check my card to see how the kid was doing.

Only Ernie Banks could take the men away from their rousing debates of politics, work or other such crazy nonsense. Ernie was a hero to the men as well and they knew his stats better than kids did and maybe even more than Ernie himself. I can't remember ever taking a bite of a hot dog when he was at bat. I barely took a breath at the moment the pitch was released. Would he get on base or maybe even get an extra-base hit? Tension would mount so much that when he would get a homer, you would think the Cubs just won the World Series. But that would have to wait for many decades and then some.

Those times were so innocent that I only had to be shown where the restrooms were one time. After that I could find it myself and nobody ever thought of anything bad happening. Today, a young child has to be escorted by his mommy of all things. How sad it is to think of kids not learning to navigate a ballpark by themselves. That was an adventure all its own.

On the way there and back there was so much activity a kid could watch it all day. There were vendors with shirts, hats and every little trinket imaginable, all with the Cubs logo. Then there were food vendors all over with the same hot dogs you could buy outside but that didn't seem right to me. Hot dogs at the ballpark were meant to come out of those heavy looking steamer boxes and served by gruff men who were always in a hurry. Besides, how cool was it to have your game uninterrupted by annoying trips to a stand inside?

The walls behind the grandstands had openings to the outside that were screened over. On a hot day, the breezes off the lake would create a strong draft by the entrances back to the seats and in those moments I realized how a dog feels as it rides in a car with its head out of the window. I could close my eyes and it felt like I was flying over the city and could take in every smell. Beneath the lake breezes, you could smell food, cigar smoke, beer, cement and freshly cut grass.

Sounds would stand out there as well. Having the smaller crowds of the 50's meant you could hear more. You could hear fans yelling at the players and food vendors calling out, "hot dogs, hot dogs, getcher hot dogs". You could hear the bats connecting with the ball even with car horns outside trying to intrude on the bliss that was Wrigley field. But enough of that, Grandpa was waiting and I was missing the cigars and dirty jokes.

Once I got back in my seat, I would try to get my scorecard caught up. Grandpa would turn to the other men and ask about details of the game while I was gone and before you knew it there would be ten different opinions on that. If I had been gone for more than one inning, I would just fake it. After all, the program was just a tool to help me fit in with the men.

Grandpa was a Free Mason and some of the men he met at the game knew him from that organization or from work. Even though there was a game going on, I liked it when they talked about their business because it made me realize that my Grandpa had a lot of friends and they seemed to address him with a lot of respect. Considering how late it was in his life that I came along, these are things I never would have learned at home. My parents never talked about his life outside of the family. My mother called him Dad and would only talk in depth about his life after he died.

Doubleheaders were the best because there would be a break between games where everyone would rush to the restrooms and the men would get another round of beers. During those moments Grandpa would take time to ask me how I was enjoying the game so far and then he did something most other adults wouldn't do because I was so talkative. He would ask me about things in my life. He was genuinely interested in my school work and he always wanted to know what sports I was interested in.

At first I wouldn't know what to say because he was asking things only my buddies at home would ask. I was more surprised that an adult would want to know such things but that was the cool thing about Grandpa Hoss. He never talked down to me like I was a little kid. In fact, when we were together he treated me like one of his buddies. How cool was that? In fact, I could tease him about his bald head and he would tell me all the best bald jokes. I kept those times in my heart all my life.

During the second game, I wouldn't need as much help with the scorecard and in time it was so easy, it was as if I had been doing it all my life. His cronies would look over at it occasionally and say, "Hey, the kid's catchin' on". It really felt great when one of his buddies, the one with no neck and arms like a ham hock and a big Cuban cigar hanging out of his mouth would compliment me. I felt somewhat older and more confident and I never forgot those times.

As the second game wore on and the sun heated up Wrigley Field, Grandpa would drape his shirt over the back of his seat. He wore those funny looking tee shirts that were popular in those days; those light weight ones with no sleeves. I thought they looked silly but he somehow looked like a real man dressed like that. The straw hat never came off though. It was like a trademark with him. When my friends knew I was at a game with him, they would watch TV to see if they could spot us. They always looked for the straw hat as the WGN cameras scanned the crowd before a commercial break.

I never felt sad at the end of a game. The trip home would be even better because we had the game to talk about as we traversed the city. On the way home I felt somewhat taller and wanted to tell everyone about the great day I was having. I felt sorry for the other passengers on the EL that were already on when we got on. I knew that they missed "a beautiful day at the old ballpark", as Jack Brickhouse used to say as he announced the games.

Once we were on the CTA bus going back down 67th street, I admit that part was a little sad and somewhat quiet. I knew it may be a while before the next episode of our ritual. Before he put me on the bus at Kedzie Avenue again, I felt compelled to hug him and tell him I loved him. That was hard because real men in those days never said such things out loud and hugging wasn't a big thing then, like it would be in the 80's and beyond. However we ignored those taboos because, well just because. He was my Grandpa and that meant more than what others thought.

He would tell the bus driver where I was to get off and he always assured the man that my mother would be waiting. I would sit across the aisle from the driver so I could see him as we talked. There was so much more to talk about on the return trip. I don't know if bus drivers were more polite in those days or maybe they just wore ear plugs but they never seemed to mind talking with me.

As the bus neared 105th street, I could see my mother standing in front of the Nazarene Church on the corner. The driver would talk with her a bit before he left and tell her we had a good talk on the way home. Each driver seemed really agreeable and in some ways reminded me of Grandpa's friends. Men seemed to stand taller in those days and were much more decent and polite. I miss that in this world.

I talked my Ma's head off from that corner to our home. She probably couldn't have cared less about the game or the fact that I shook hands with Ernie Banks. She just smiled as I talked and enjoyed the walk home. She would call Grandpa on the phone when she got in the house and ask if I behaved and asked if she should be prepared for any new words I may have overheard.

I would show my scorecard to my buddies when I saw them, but it would be hard to read by then. It had been rolled up a lot by sweaty hands and had mustard stains and pop stains but it was still the best souvenir. The next day we would make up our own scorecards for the never ending ball game we had in the prairie at the end of the block. It was fun to be able to extend my new found knowledge with my best friends. That's the way it should be after all.

The ritual repeated itself for many years. Then one summer, Grandpa died. He was 75. I was just ten years old. I had never been to a funeral before and wasn't looking forward to this one. At the funeral parlor, I went to see him right away. It was very surreal for me. I had so much I wanted to say but nothing came out. However, I remember closing my eyes and for a brief moment we were back at Wrigley Field. I could feel the lake breezes and smell the hot dogs. When I looked at him one last time, all I could say was, "Thank you Grandpa. I love you."

One of his cronies with the ham hock arms and no neck was there. He paid his respects to Grandpa and knelt beside him and prayed and as he turned to leave he spotted me across the room. Before he paid his respects to my Grandma, he walked over to me. My parents were with me and he introduced himself. He told them, "This kid is something special. He taught us a few things at the ball games". He was being polite and I know he was kidding but he shook my hand before he left and said, "It's been good knowing you, kid. Good luck and remember your Grandpa. He was one of the great ones."

I would remember him quite well and would never forget our summer ritual. I went to games with my buddies as I became a teenager but they were never the same. My friends liked to sit in the bleachers and that was just too sad. From the bleachers, I had a direct view of the grandstands along the 1st baseline. I could still see that old man with a crowd of real men hanging on his every word as they sent up great clouds of smoke from Cuban cigars. I could remember the cool breezes and the hot dogs. The hot dogs now just couldn't compare.

When Grandpa died, so did the ritual as well as a wonderful era. His cronies were replaced by loud mouthed drunks that seemed more intent on the beer than the game. The civility was gone with the ritual and would never be renewed but it also would never be forgotten. Thank you, Grandpa. I love you.

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