By Dmitry Samarov
I moved to Chicago to go to art school in 1990. I’d been a Red Sox fan ever since a school trip to Fenway Park sometime around 1980. It was one of Carl Yastrzemski’s last years and I didn’t know a damn thing about baseball. Having only arrived from the USSR recently, the thought of signing me up for Little League wouldn’t have crossed my parents’ minds. I played stickball with my best friend, Dan, against the wall of the elementary school. We also played Strat-O-Matic, keeping stats on curling sheets of lined paper, playing out countless seasons as the ’57 Brooklyn Dodgers or the ’27 Yankees or some crazy amalgam All-Star squad spanning decades. Being a Red Sox fan, you needed to embrace disappointment, so when I got to Chicago and looked around for a local club to follow, the Cubs weren’t an option. I already had a lost cause and didn’t need another. The White Sox were another story.
Posted on April 5, 2011