Brother Love & Baseball

At least for one night, a series of extraordinarily unlikely events converge for me and my brother Phil as we take ourselves out to the old ballgame.

Two Mondays ago was a one-in-a-million night.

That’s the approximate math on four extremely unlikely events all coming together:

1.  For the first time in nearly a year, my brother Phil had just acquired a phone.

My most recent column on Phil and me was in May. As I’ve chronicled through my “Brother Love” series, Phil has had extended stretches of homelessness marked by alcohol and drug addiction. For over three years, thanks to subsidized housing opportunities, he’s resided in an apartment.

While the housing has been a godsend, Phil’s continued to choose a difficult path, his day-to-day activity (including panhandling) at the mercy of feeding his substance addiction. On top of that, for nearly the past year he’d pretty much given up on having a phone; the cost of maintaining a monthly service was more than he was willing to incur, and he declined attempts I made to secure one for him.

As a result, it has been enormously difficult to stay in touch. Unable to coordinate our schedules, I was left to guess when I might be able to visit him at his apartment. That led to some really strained interactions (such as the one noted in “Closed-door meeting,” below).

2.  Over the course of the day, after I invited Phil to join me for the White Sox game against the New York Yankees, I confirmed and re-confirmed and re-re-confirmed that he’d join me.

Each time, he stuck with the plan.

3. With a penchant for running late, losing track of time or otherwise not following through, Phil got to Guaranteed Rate Field with 40 minutes to spare.

Until he was by my side, I wasn’t counting any chickens—or buying any tickets. Our first order of business was going to a ticket window.

4. We enjoyed an extraordinarily unlikely 12-2 White Sox rout of the dreaded Yankees, while also enjoying the company of a nephew, his girlfriend and two of their friends.

These are the same White Sox who had recently snapped a 21-game losing streak against one of the best teams in baseball. And as lifelong Red Sox fans, owing to our Boston-area roots, Phil and I were not only rooting for the White Sox, but avidly rooting against the Yankees.

To be sure, Chicago’s win was just icing on the cake. The game’s outcome wasn’t going to make or break our night. The point is we were able to spend time together in an activity we hadn’t shared since we were kids.

Our last Major League game together was around 1980, when our dad would take us to Boston’s Fenway Park bleachers with our other brother. Dad would pack sandwiches, chips and soda in a cooler, which staff allowed in as we spread out in our $3 general seats.

Can you imagine that happening today? On this evening, Phil and I managed to bring in only one water bottle apiece—mine filled with water and his bottle a mix of water and vodka that he nursed over the next few hours.

As we made our way into the park, Phil grew misty-eyed remembering the overwhelming beauty of Fenway Park when we first glimpsed it on the day before Mother’s Day 1976. I was right there with him, both in recalling the wonder of that shared first-time memory and now in the beauty of this new moment.

Along with our nephew Brennan, Phil and I enjoy our first MLB game together in 40+ years.

To Top it Off…

I knew that going up and down the never-ending ramps to our nose-bleed seats was something to avoid. So, I found the elevator at the start of the night, then returned to it as we filed out. Phil was grateful and astonished at the notion of skipping the ramps, but that was just the start of our adventure.

The elevator spilled us into a VIP area near the exit where we almost literally bumped into Tony La Russa, the MLB Hall of Famer and former White Sox manager.

I struck up a conversation with La Russa, mentioning my coverage of the team three years ago for the Daily Herald. I shared a few anecdotes from that time, but didn’t mention how much has changed so fast: amid health issues, La Russa stepped down as manager at the end of a disappointing 2022 season; this year, the White Sox (31-98 record) are contending for the worst Major League Baseball season in over a century.

I mentioned that it had been Phil’s and my first time watching a big-league game together since we were kids, then asked if he’d agree to a group photo. La Russa patiently obliged…twice.

The first one came out comically blurry and off-center, followed by another that came as we waited for my needlessly long five-second timer to count down. Behind us, doing some kind of “Where’s Waldo?” schtick, was Phil.