In those long ago days, when World Series games were still played in the sunshine, I used run home from school, turn on the TV, and open up a notebook and “report” on the game. I usually got home in time for the third or fourth inning but that was ok, because the nuns had let us watch the first couple of innings at school. The reports weren’t for me. They were for Pop Mannion. When he arrived home from work, somewhere around the seventh or the eighth, I was ready to fill him in on all that he’d missed.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized he didn’t need my reports. He’d been following the game on somebody’s radio at work and then on the car radio on his drive home. He never let on. He reacted to my “reports” as if he was hearing the news for the first time. I caught him one day. I went to the window to see if he was on his way down the street and there he was sitting in the car in the driveway, listening to a long, tense at bat. He didn’t want to miss the outcome while walking into the house, even though he knew I’d be jumping up and down to tell him about it.
My favorite memories of the World Series of my kidhood, then, aren’t of any particular game or series---not even of 1969---but of all them, of waiting for Pop to get home.
These days, I still “report” on the games as I watch them, at least in my head, because I still have to tell someone what happened.
Oliver Mannion, a Cardinals fan, went to bed Thursday night with the birds down 5-2 at the end of seven. It was a school night and he had to get up at six.
I had a lot to “report” in the morning.
Last night, worn out from the week, he went to bed early, with the score tied 2-2 in the middle of the third. I called up the stairs to tell him when Craig homered but I’m not sure he heard me. He’s sleeping in this morning.
So I’m waiting to give him my report on who won the World Series.
And that’s all I have to say about Major League Baseball’s stupid refusal to play any World Series' games in the sunshine.