Cubs and Sox Fans: Be Careful What You Wish For

Certain years ring bells for Cubs and Sox fans. For the South Siders, it’s 2005 and before that, 1959.

Make a note of the year: 1959. I’ll get back to it shortly.

For the Cubbie faithful, the remembered years cause pain: the twin failures of the last two, 2003, 1998, 1989, 1984 and too many others to mention. Years when the balloon of faith and hope got punctured in the playoffs by grim reality; years that brought tears and anger and much gnashing of teeth.

As Chicagoans know, but outsiders might not, you are not supposed to be able to be both a Cubs and a Sox fan. It is essential to make a choice, usually early in life; this is done by some combination of parental persuasion, family example, and geography. Most locals don’t want to break faith with family tradition and root for a different team than their neighbors root for.

And so, not surprisingly, I was a Cubs fan. So was my dad, so was his dad, etc. And for most of the aforementioned lives, I and my recent ancestors have been living on the North Side of the city or in the northern suburbs. You’ve heard the story before, how you get imprinted on the team when your dad first takes you to see them in a tender moment of your youth. After that, no amount of pain inflicted by the ball club’s failures can separate you from the attachment. Like certain wild animals, you have mated for life.

Thus it was in 1959, the year of the first White Sox pennant in 40 summers, that I discovered the meaning of the phrase “Be careful what you wish for.”

I was a little boy, of course, but not so little that I didn’t want the White Sox to fail. Like nearly all my friends, I hated the White Sox. It was something like a religious obligation, almost an 11th commandment: “Thou shalt hate the Chicago White Sox.” Just as religion required me to honor my father and my mother, so did it ask that I root for the Cubbies only: “Thou shalt have no team before the Cubs.”

My Uncle Sam was an exception to the family allegiance to the Cubs. He was my mother’s brother, was raised on the South Side, and breathed the air of other Sox loyalists. He also had a friend who was a White Sox scout and minor league manager, Frank Parenti. Frank would get Sam tickets for some of the games and occasionally I got to see American League contests played in old Comiskey Park as a result. But that didn’t mean that I had to like them or like the White Sox! No, I went out of curiosity, as a sort of scientific observer, and to see what the draw of the Sox was to my uncle; not to mention getting to watch Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Ted Williams, and other American League greats close up.

Thanks to Mr. Parenti, both my uncle and my dad got to see the second game of the 1959 World Series. Back in those days, the games were all played in natural light, so school required that I miss seeing most of the weekday action on TV. But I was more than happy when the Sox returned to Chicago for the sixth game down 3 games to 2. Only one more loss and the World Series would be over! The sooner, the better, I felt.

I came home after school on the afternoon of the 6th game, October 8th, to find the White Sox down by a score of  8 to 3 in the 7th inning. It was clear to me, as it must have been to every other Chicago baseball fan, that the World Series was effectively over. The Sox had a relatively weak hitting team staffed by the likes of Luis Aparicio, Nelson Fox, Sherman Lollar, and Al Smith; and had won the American League Championship by dint of excellent pitching and defense, and a surprising off-year from the Yankees. The South Siders would have needed a miracle to reverse their fortunes. I was feeling good!

Along about the 8th inning, still 8-3, my mom strolled into the living room where I was parked in front of a large Muntz TV. “What’s the score,” she asked?

“Eight to three,” I replied, “the World Series is pretty much over.”

Then the words I have not forgotten, will never forget; more indelible than a tattoo on the heart they were about to break:

“Oh, that’s too bad. Your dad had a World Series ticket for you tomorrow.”

I don’t have much recall after the trauma of those words. I think I started rooting feverishly for the White Sox, but I can’t really remember any detail. All I know is that my life changed forever. I had learned a hard lesson.

As Oscar Wilde put it many years before: “There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants; the other is getting it.”

In the succeeding 50 years, I have yet to see a World Series game except on TV. And I have become that rare Chicago sports fan who hopes for the best for both the Cubs and the Sox.

I know, all too well, the danger of doing otherwise.

The above image is by Kalel2007, sourced from Wikimedia Commons.

8 thoughts on “Cubs and Sox Fans: Be Careful What You Wish For

  1. Frank Parenti was my great-uncle, my grandmother’s brother. I am glad that he was able to get your uncle and your dad to the World Series. Sorry you did make it.


    • Sorry that you did not make it to the Series.


    • drgeraldstein

      My goodness! l remember meeting your great-uncle when I was very small. He was kind to me — he even got me some autographed pictures of Luis Aparicio and Billy Pierce that I still have. Many thanks for your comments.


    • Hey I would love to keep in touch my Grandpa played baseball with Frank. That was his coach until he was drafted to war. Hope to hear more stories soon!



  2. Frank Parenti was my uncle, a wonderful soft spoken man. He made it possible for me to play hooky from St. Ignatius HS to attend a’59 series game. He was one of nine children, including a younger brother, Sam, who was my father. I hope you enjoyed ’05.


  3. Dr. Stein, my brother, Frank Parente, sent me your article on the ’59 series. I was 6 years younger than Frank at the time but even then I felt that my not getting to go to a Series game was a miscarriage of justice! Especially since my brother, Frank, got to go!
    Our dad, Sam Parente, was Frank Parenti’s brother, thus, my Uncle. His nickname, in the family at least, was “Pabby”, as in Uncle Pabby. My brother’s description of Uncle Pabby as a wonderful, soft spoken man, was very accurate. He was very different in several ways, from the rest of our very Italian–and loud–family. Also, it always seemed to me as a pre-teen White Sox fan, that Pabby was very worldly. We would see him during the “off-season”, the rest of the time he was coaching and managing for the White Sox, mostly in their farm system.
    You can Google “Frank Parenti minor league baseball record” to see his baseball playing and managing records, mostly for the White Sox, from 1924 to 1966. I believe that he also went to Spring Training with the White Sox and was their bunting coach–a lost art today.
    It should be noted that I finally got to go to the Series in 2005, second game, with my son, and a nephew, so, over time, all of these things even out!
    Thanks for sharing your story.
    Jim Parente
    Plano, Texas


    • A neat background story, Jim. I’m happy to have gotten to know a bit more about your uncle. My hunch is that my Uncle Sam got to know him at work. Sam ran a watch band repair and watch crystal replacement business in the Maller’s Building at 5 S. Wabash. I’m guessing that Frank came in there to get something fixed, or perhaps to buy an item from the little bit of jewelry Sam had in his display case. Uncle Sam was a very outgoing guy and as soon as the heard about the White Sox, I’m willing to bet he made sure to make a new friend. Take care and, should you ever run into my old friend, Ron Ableman, who also lives in Plano, you can relate our connection. Ron, however, is a Cubs fan!


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