It was a balmy, May afternoon; the sun high in a cloudless sky, dandelions waved their snowy heads in the outfield at Roosevelt Park. The year was 1958; I was the second string second baseman on the varsity baseball team behind Al Cwik.

Al and I were taking throws from the outfield. We were giddy because the day before we won the Catholic League South Section title. Al was especially exuberant and joking around because he had the winning hit. With the score tied in the bottom of the ninth he lined a double that sent our first baseman, Denny Kelly into score from first base. That hit eliminated our archrivals, St. Rita's, 5 to 4. We became the Catholic League South Section Champions.

I straddled second base waiting for a throw from Bob Wolk in left field. I prided myself on putting the tag on imaginary runners sliding into second. In the middle of my sweeping tag, Coach Kosic's bellow pierced my concentration.

"Hey, all you guys huddle up on the field house steps."

Coach was an ex-minor leaguer who hailed from Lancing, Michigan. He played for his home town team called the Lancing Lug Nuts. He still wore his old blue baseball cap with an orange L. He was not very tall, and had a bit of a beer protrusion which hampered his demonstration of how to field a ground ball; but he knew baseball and he knew how to get inside a kid's head. There was the usual kibitzing as the team gathered on the field house steps. Coach raised his hand, thumb-down, a flood of silence.

"Boys," he crackled, in his best Knute Rockne voice, "I have to tell you, you fellows are some of the luckiest guys in the world."

Jerry Biscaglio, our center fielder and resident jokester echoed "in the world, in the world, in the world" (imitating Lou Gehrig's voice as it echoed throughout Yankee Stadium during his farewell speech).

Coach stopped and withered him with his famous evil eye. The only sound to be heard was the wind sweeping through the budding leaves on the trees beside the field house. Coach scanned the team, his eyes reach into our souls and squeezed. We knew if he sensed any inattention we would be running laps until our tongues hung out like his slobbering bulldog, Fielder. When he was satisfied, he continued, "I was just told that our school principal got a call from the mayor's office (the mayor had attended our school) and arrangements have been made for us to play a three game, Championship series against Fenwick (the North section champions) in Comiskey Park."

A collective gasp and then a boisterous eruption rolled out from the field house steps. I pounded Joe Barrio on the arm and we let out howls of joy. Joe was my bench warming partner. We sat through many a game second guessing the moves Coach made, mainly because they didn't involve us being inserted into the lineup. It took a while to realize we were actually going to play baseball on the hallowed ground where Nellie Fox, Billy Pierce and Minnie Minoso played. And not one, but three games!

Wednesday at 1:00 PM, my cousin, Bill who was an outfielder and back-up catcher, and I stood up in our Chemistry class and announced, "Brother Peter, we have to leave for Comiskey Park."

He gave us a "thumb up," our classmates yelled, "Meteors, Meteors..." as we headed for the door. Bill and I bounced shoulder to shoulder, hardly able to contain our excitement, as we headed to the locker room.

The familiar smells of stale sweat and old gym shoes enveloped us as he pulled open the locker room door. But a different odor penetrated the familiar smells. There was a whiff of something new. We looked at a few of the guys who were in front of their lockers. Bob Frank was slipping on a uniform shirt, but it was different, it was fresh, it was new!

"Hey, where you get that?" Bill yelled.

George Gramanski pointed. "On the rack in the shower room."

We hurried into the shower room. We couldn't believe our eyes, crisp, clean uniforms hanging like new Easter outfits in a department store. No more patches on the knees or moth holes in the socks. I shuffled through the hangers and found number two. I yelled:

"Hey Bill, our names are pin to each uniform!"

I pulled my uniform from its hanger, number 2 on the back, the number of my favorite player, Nelli Fox. I took it and whizzed through the dust mites dancing in the sunlight back to my locker. I carefully placed my new uniform on the bench. I tried to open my combination lock, but my sweaty fingers kept slipping. I stopped, rubbed my fingers on my pants as I had seen safe crackers do in the movies. I tried again, Hey it worked! The lock clicked, I jerked open the locker door. It flew from my hand and banged against the next locker and promptly bounced back. I caught the blue door just before it slammed shut. I stripped off my tie, tore off my shirt and tried to step out of my pants. Unfortunately, I forgot to take off my shoes. My left shoe caught, I hopped on one foot, hit my knee on the bench and ended sprawled on the floor. Raucous hoots rose from my teammates.

One wise guy said, "Hey Eddie, careful you'll hurt yourself, we might need your bat."
Eddie was my nick-name and as you will learn, the part about the bat was an in-joke, but more about that later.

When I finally managed to crawl back on to the bench, I grabbed my new uniform. I rubbed it to my face, it was a little itchy, but who cared. It was new, it smelled new, it felt new. The uniform was highlighted with royal blue piping with a large block number, the school name emblazoned across the front and best of all, my number 2. The shirt was a little large, the tail came almost to my knees, but it was mine.

Guys were strutting around admiring themselves when Coach Kosic came into the locker room and yelled, "Ladies, c'mon get dressed and get on the damn bus."

It was amazing how fast the team made it to the small parking lot at the rear of the school where Brother Raphael aka Bro Ralph was warming up the team bus. The used Greyhound always smelled like horses had been stabled in it. The joke was that we would sue, later in life, if our sense of smell incurred permanent injury.

Coach boarded the bus and walked down the aisle taking his count of the players. This was the usual time he'd give us his pep talk; but today, he didn't say a word. He turned and sat down in the front seat behind Bro Ralph. Usually our bus rides were noisy affairs. Guys talked mostly of baseball and girls, a few fellas did homework. But this day was different. A eerie silence hovered as the bus headed out of the parking lot onto Wabash Avenue and then turned west on 35th Street. Some of the guys had their eyes closed; others just stared out the windows. In a short time we heard the tortured squeaks of the bus brakes as Bro Ralph pulled up at the home of the Chicago White Sox at 35th and Shields. He opened the bus door. Coach stood up and said:

"I feel a win today. Let's do it!"

We yelled back, "You got it, Coach!" Chants of Meteors, Meteors blasted as we filed from the bus.

When I stepped onto the sidewalk, I stopped and gazed up at the majestic sign that heralded "Comiskey Park, Home of the Chicago White Sox." Bill bumped into me. "Can you believe it," I said. "Are we dreaming or what?"

We hurried through the main gate and up the stairs that led to the field. The place smelled baseball. I climbed the concrete steps, and a field of dreams exploded before my eyes; green grass, a smooth skin infield, white bases and gleaming foul lines ribboning to the outfield walls. The panorama of dark green seats, the giant scoreboard and blue sky beyond was incredible. I pounded my cleats against my leg to make sure I had not died and was now a resident of baseball heaven. Suddenly, an idea popped into my head. I realized I could actually hit a ball into the seats at Comiskey Park. I told Bill my brainstorm. He liked the concept. We spied Jim Erickson, our team manager, coming up the steps, he was struggling with three equipment bags.

"Hey, Jim, I said, "want some help?"

"Yeah, sure."

He dropped a bat bag and a bag of practice baseballs. Bill and I grabbed them and bounced down the stairs to the playing field.

Jim yelled, "Hey you guys can't do that."

We paid no heed as we hopped over the little green wall that separated the box seats from the field of play. Stopping on the grass just beyond third base, I dumped the balls on to the field, he on loaded the bats. We began flipping balls into the air and hitting them toward the green brick wall in left field. Not having great success, I grabbed a fungo bat (an extra-long bat used for hitting fly balls). Other team members soon joined in. A hailstorm of baseballs showered the left field stand. I managed to hit one into the seats and whopped around like an Indian doing a war dance. Bob Wolk, our 6 foot, 6 inch left fielder went to home plate and hit several into the seats and hit two into the bullpen in center field.

Coach Kosic stood at the top of the steps and surveyed our mania, a drill sergeant's shriek, "What the hell are you guys doing? For God-sake get your asses out there and collect those balls. Infielders get on the diamond, outfielders start getting use to the sun, make some throws, get your arms loose. Stop screwing around, we're here to play baseball."

While collecting the balls, I remember thinking; I hit a ball into the left field seats at Comiskey Park. No one has to know I was using a fungo bat while standing near third base.

As I came down the dugout steps, Coach said, "Get out to second base and take some grounders."

I was surprised, I rarely was on the field during a game. Occasionally, I would pinch hit when he needed to get someone on, hence, my nick-name, Eddie. I was pretty good at coaxing walks out of opposing pitchers because I was the smallest guy on the team. Running toward second base, I felt like my feet were stepping on a velvet carpet. How could anyone misplay a ground ball on a field this smooth? We played our games on bumpy infields littered with stones. Coach taught us to charge every ground ball with our heads down. If a hard hit grounder bounced unexpectedly it would hit the top of our heads, not our faces.

Game time was 4:00 PM. School was out a three o'clock, fans from our school started to trickle in. Fenwick fans came on special buses. They came into the park chanting "Friars, Friars." Our fans being close came in car pools or hopped the 35th Street bus right to the gate. By game time the crowd was above 1,000 people, but in Comiskey Park the group looked minuscule. However, they made plenty of noise. Each side taunting the other with cheers and jibes.

We knew Fenwick would be tough. They had a pitcher who had won eleven games and lost only one, but we had Terry Tucker who was ten and two for us. We were designated the home team for the first game. Through the first seven and one half innings the game was scoreless. It was a hard fought duel with good pitching and both teams coming up with outstanding defensive plays. Our shortstop, Dick Gorski, who later was accorded All-American honors at Norte Dame, made two athletic over-the-shoulder catches of foul balls down the left field line. On one he tumbled into the stands, the crowd held its breath and then screamed wildly as he held up the ball, and the umpire signaled a putout.

In the bottom of the eighth, there was still no score. In true baseball tradition, no one uttered a word, but we all knew that Terry had a no hitter going. Joe and I, as usual, were collecting splinters at the end of the bench. As I said earlier, I was pretty good at getting a walk. This is where the Eddie nick-name came from. Coach had taken to calling me Eddie after Eddie Gaedel, the midget that Bill Veeck sent up to bat when he owed the St. Louis Browns. He told me, I was his Eddie (although I was a giant in cleats at 5'4" compared to Eddie). I had pinch hit seven times and five times I had been successful at getting a walk. Coach yelled down the bench,
"Okay, Eddie, get a bat."

Of course, he cautioned his usual caveat, "Work it and don't swing!"

I felt like there was a pterosaurs flapping wildly in my stomach. I walked passed Coach and up the dugout stairs, he whispered, "Remember, we need a base runner."

I picked up three bats and took a practice swing. One bat went flying and banged off the wall just beneath where Coach's wife and daughter were sitting. His mouth twisted as he barked, "Stick to one bat, we need a base runner."

The pitcher completed his warm-up tosses; the umpire motioned me to the batter's box. As I strolled toward the plate, bat on my shoulder, I could hear the yells from the crowd. I even heard my name. But over the din, I heard the Coach,"OK Eddie, do your thing." I knew he meant, don't swing.

I raised the bat, cocked my wrists and got ready. The first pitch, a fast ball, came in belt high, "Strike!"

Wow, that was a shocker. Silence fell over our crowd. The Fenwick fans behind first base went wild. I could hear one of them shouting, "Hey this midget must be their secret weapon."

I asked for timeout and stepped out of the box. I had strikes call on me before, but usually, only after the ball count was high. The next two pitches were high and outside. I relaxed, the dinosaur's wings slowing a bit. I stepped from the batter's box and took a couple of practice swings.

The next pitch was a sweeping curve ball. I stepped back, but it broke perfectly across the middle of the plate, "Strike two!" the umpire bellowed.

My heart nearly stopped. Sweat oozed into my palms and ran down my wrists. I called time out and rubbed my hands on my uniform, picked up the rosin bag and rubbed it on the bat handle. The count was 2 and 2, one more strike I would be a failure. Sweat poured from every part of my anatomy. I took off my hat and wiped my forehead with my arm. My neck was hot, my uniform shirt stuck to my back. There was no way I was going to be called out on strikes. Not in a championship game, not at Comiskey Park. I got back in the box, pounded the plate a couple of times with my bat, got into my crouched, and stared out at the pitcher. I saw a smirk on his face. I riveted my eyes on the ball as he began his wind-up. I could feel my eyes narrow as the ball left his hand. I saw the seams spinning as it sailed right down the middle. I knew it was strike three, so I swung with everything I had. My hat flew off, I saw nothing but blue sky; however, I heard a click, felt a tiny tick on the end of the bat. I took off down the first base line. The third baseman charged, his bare hand reached for the ball. Racing, I could see the first baseman stretching out for the throw. Running all out I stepped on the corner of base. Then I heard the smack of the ball. The umpire's arms swung wide like a breast-stroker, the joyous call, "Safe!"

Our crowd went berserk. I could hear stamping feet and the chair seats being slammed up and down, and my name being yelled from the stands. Brother Justin, our first base coach, ran over and gave me a slap on the backside. Luckily for me Coach was way over in the third base dugout. But, I was on first base with my first hit of the year. Better yet, I was the potential lead run and no one was out. Brother Justin told me to make sure to take a good lead, but to watch the pitcher because he had an effective pick-off move. I ventured from first base and sure enough a throw came over. I easily got back.

Dick Gorski, our best hitter, was up. I took my leadoff, the pitch was on its way I stretched my lead. Dick took the first pitch and I hustled back to the bag. The fans began to chant go, go, go. Dick hit the next pitch, a rising line drive, I took off. The left fielder moved over a step and gloved it. I beat a quick retreat back to first. Next up was Jerry, our jokester, center fielder; he was known as the "Italian Stallion," because of his several blonde girlfriends. We not only enjoyed his jokes, he was also popular because his dad made the best home-made wine on the south side, but that's a story for another time.

The Stallion took his stance; both of us watched the third base coach for a sign. There it was skin to skin, a hit and run was on. I took off with the pitch. The Stallion fouled it into the stands behind first base. I trotted back to first and stared across the infield. There it was again, skin to skin. I was off; Jerry hit a long foul ball down the left field line. I hustled back to first. With two strikes on the hitter, the sign was rubbed off. I could see the Stallion stomping around in the batter's box; and then he took his stance. He glared at the pitcher and pointed his bat straight at him. The pitcher looked at me and threw over. I got back. He looked at Jerry and went into his stretch. He looked at me, turned and fired home. The Stallion took a mighty swing, but there was only the dull thump of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt. I took a deep breath and beat it back to first.

Holy Cow! Just like that two outs, and I'm still standing on first base. Up came Joe, my splinter collecting partner, as a pinch hitter for Al Cwik. I couldn't believe it. What happened to Al? He is one of our best hitters. What the heck is going on?

Joe fouled off a couple of pitches, I was getting pretty tired, running and getting nowhere. Joe worked the count to 3 and 2. He kept fouling off pitches; the number reached five, my tendons felt like over-stretched rubber bands. My chest was screaming and every joint felt like it need to be sprayed with WD40. All I could think was, Please Joe, hit one fair. Finally, on the tenth pitch, he sent a screamer to right center; I could hear it wiz over my head as I headed for second. Rounding second, I saw Bro Ralph, our third base coach, all 6 foot 4 inches of him, jumping up and down, spinning his right arm like a minute hand gone wild. I clipped the corner of third and headed home. As I rounded the base, I heard Bro Ralph shouting, "Get your boney ass home!"

The relay throw was wide, but I scored sliding anyway (a dirty uniform, of course, was a good thing). We were ahead 1 to 0 and Joe was standing on third base. Our next batter hit a lazy fly to center for the third out. But we went into to the top of the ninth ahead by a run, just three more outs.

One of the historic side effects of this inning was henceforth and for all time, Joe and I had new nicknames. Joe became known as "Jolting Joe" and I was "Boney Ass."

In the top of the ninth, the North champions had their two, three, and four hitters coming to the plate. I was inserted at second base, because Al, our regular second baseman, had cut his hand trying to open a Coke bottle with his pocket knife; the reason why Joe had pinch hit.

Terry, our pitcher, seemed cool, he gave me a tip of his hat, as I trotted by I heard him say, "Just take it easy."

I got to my position, my knees were shaking and my left hand was sweating so much that my glove almost slipped off. Dan Kelly, our first baseman, threw me a few grounders. I fielded them cleanly and caught the throw from the catcher without a muff. Okay, not so bad, I can do this.

Terry got the first hitter on ground out to third. But the second hitter hit a towering infield fly. I looked up, spotted the ball, a little black pill against the gleaming sun, I lifted my glove to shade my eyes. The ball reached its apex, and arched back toward earth. I circled, felt the slope of the pitcher's mound, "Oh God, Oh God." Then to my relief, I heard Gorski, our shortstop, yelling, "I got it." Fenwick's clean-up hitter worked the count to 3 and 2. Yells and cheers rolled out from the stands behind third base. Girls some with closed eyes and hands folded, prayed; others were jumping up and down, waving blue and gold pennants. Guys were shouting and stamping their feet. Cheers of Meteors, Meteors bounced off the confines of the cavernous park. Terry wound up and sent a slow curve ball, the batter uncoiled. We waited, and waited then the sweet sound of the ball smacking into the catcher's glove. The game was over. The entire team rushed the pitcher's mound. Terry was mobbed. Guys were jumping on each other, hats and gloves were flying everywhere. Terry had pitched the first no hitter in the history of the Catholic League Championship series.

We celebrated that day; however, lady fortune was not so kind in the next two games, we lost 7 to 4 and 4 to 2. Although I finished the season with an amazing batting average of 1000, my fondest memory of sport will always be rounding third and hearing Bro Ralph yelling, "Get your boney ass home!"