By Roger Wallenstein
Spending the past week in northern Wisconsin at the summer camp of my youth meant cooling off in a clear, sand-bottomed lake; canoeing down the Brule River, a truly pristine trout stream flowing north into Lake Superior; scaring the beejeezus out of my granddaughter, who was a passenger in the sailboat which I was doing my damndest to keep upright; and enjoying the company of family and friends.
But try as I might, the thought of completely blocking out the so-called Crosstown Classic proved to be too much of a challenge.
Men who haven’t set foot at Camp Nebagamon for decades usually utter the same sentiment: “The place looks the same,” they declare as they investigate the environs of their youth.
Of course, despite that reaction, there have been notable changes. As a kid, I enjoyed camp, but similar to last week, part of me was back on the South Side wondering how the White Sox were doing.
Read More
Posted on August 17, 2015