friends and coworkers were invited ontornthe field, where a caterer had set up twornbars and several buffet tables containingrnhot dogs, grilled chicken, and numerousrnside dishes. Filling his plate and grabbingrna can of pop, he walked to the batter’srnbox, which now was shaded fromrnthe late afternoon sun. It was here inrn1932 that Babe Ruth had allegedly pointedrnto the right center field seats just beforernhitting a towering home run to thatrnver’ spot. Six years later, Cubs catcherrn”Gabb}'” Hartnett, who was behind thernplate for Ruth’s supposed “called shot,”rnwould stand there in the ninth inningrnand hit “The Homer in the Bloamin'”rnthat beat the Pirates six to five.rnHe turned to look at the right field cornerrnwhere, many summers ago, his fatherrnhad brought him to see his first bigleaguernballgame. He looked at the top ofrnthe wall just left of the foul pole wherernthe old man had leaned over and talkedrnit up with a player who was shagging flyballsrnduring batting practice. Theyrntalked, he remembered, as though theyrnhad known each other for years. Thatrnwas the last time the two went to a ballgamerntogether because, a few years later,rnthe ‘oung bov fell in with the wrongrncrowd and became a White Sox fan.rn”He’, how about taking our picture?”rnasked one of his friends, who had joinedrna few others on the pitcher’s mound.rn”Sure,” he said, and he set his food andrndrink on the ground behind the moundrnin the spot normally reserved for resinrnbags. “Great! Now you get up there, andrnI’ll take one of you,” said the friend.rnHe looked in at home plate andrnthought that 60 feet, 6 inches didn’trnseem that far to throw a ball. He couldrndo it easily, he thought, but not at 90-plusrnmiles an hour.rnThe picture taken, he walked off thernmound through the infield where menrnlike Roger Hornsby, Phil Gaveretta, andrnRon Santo had played the game. Hernheaded for the 400-foot marker inrnstraight-away center field, and, as his feetrntouched the outfield grass for the firstrntime, he felt the skin on his neck andrnarms begin to tingle. The old, greenrnscoreboard loomed larger as he strolledrntoward the ivy-covered walls, and hernswore that he heard the opening strainsrnfrom the title theme of the movie ThernNatural. How corny, he thought, butrnwas what he felt at that moment muchrndifferent than that experienced by anyrnrookie the first time he walks onto a majorrnleague field?rnTwo men stood, talking, at the 400-rnfoot sign. He walked over and touchedrnthe ivy, and said facetiously, “Hey, dornyou think that ‘Shoeless Joe’ might showrnup?” He took in the full beauty of thernpark, listening to the popping soundsrnmade by the numerous pennants, includingrnthe one bearing Billy Williams’rnnumber, that fly above the grandstand.rnAnd he wondered how some are able tornthrow a ball from this spot and hit therncut-off man, very often on the fly.rnThe three walked back, and, after biddingrnthe other two goodbye, he headedrnfor the home team’s dugout and sat onrntheir bench for a few minutes. “Wow!rnWhat a great smell, huh?” asked someone,rnreferring to the dank odor comingrnfrom the tunnel leading to the clubhouse.rn’You can tell this is really an oldrnball park.”rnHe looked at the left field wall, overrnwhich Ernie Banks sent his 500th careerrnhomer, and again he heard the voice ofrnannouncer Jack Briekhouse: “Back,rnback, back! Hey! Hey! He did it! Herndid it! Way to go, Ernie!”rnSadness came over him as he againrnlooked into the right field corner. Thernold man was 30 the last time his teamrnplayed in the World Series, and the oddsrnof him seeing another get poorer eachrnday. Why hadn’t the gods been morerngenerous to someone with such devotionrnand loyalty? His melancholy lingered asrnhe left the field, not because of thisrnteam’s sorr’ performance over the years,rnbut because he wondered why some sonsrnand fathers never develop that special relationshiprnenjoyed by others. Why dornsome boys grow up having to seek otherrnheroes?rnAs he stood at Clark and Addison waitingrnfor his bus, a short man in his 80’srnhurried up to him and said, “Hey, if yournsee a cab coming, give me the high sign,rnand I’ll get my wife. She’s standing overrnthere, just inside Gate F. It’s too hot outrnhere for her. I’d really appreciate it.” Hernsaid he would, and he watched the oldrnman walk back to his waiting wife.rnA car pulled up at the stoplight thatrnhad just turned red. The driver, an attractivernwoman in her 30’s, lowered thernpassenger-side window and, looking inrnthe direction of the old man, asked, “Excusernme, isn’t that Studs Terkel?”rn”Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “It surelyrnis.”rnHe grinned a lot on the way home,rnthinking about how he had spent the afternoon.rnThis day would never haverncome had he insisted, fresh out of highrnschool, that he pursue his dream ofrnbecoming a drummer like Gene Kruparnor Buddy Rich.rn”Listen,” his mother had said, “yourncan’t make a living playing drums!” Sherntold the wa}’ward youth that the brotherrnof his third-grade teacher was a printer atrnthe Chicago Daily News. “He said herncan get you a job there,” she continued,rnand she strongly encouraged him to dornthe right thing.rnHis big-band dreams in tatters, he relented,rnand in the spring of 1959, hernjoined the News as a copyboy. A shortrntime later, while working the night shift,rnhe spotted an unfamiliar face in thernnewsroom. The man looked prettyrnmuch like all reporters did in those days:rnthe sleeves of his white shirt were rolledrnup to the elbows, his tie was loosened, arncigarette dangled from his mouth. Herndidn’t smile much, and his voice very oftenrnsoimded like a low growl.rn”That’s the new guy,” said a coworker.rn”His name is Royko.”rnDave Gorak worked at the ChicagornDaily News for 13 years.rnLIBERAL ARTSrnYOUR TAX DOLLARSrnAT WORKrnAfter 39 days and $750,000, the IllinoisrnState Police forced Shirley AnnrnAllen of Roby, Illinois, out of herrnhouse and into a psychiatric ward.rnThe case, dubbed “Roby Ridge,” attractedrnnational attention after Mrs.rnAllen refused to submit to a court-orderedrnpsychiatric examination andrnran the busybodies off with a shotgun.rnNow, after more than a month of examination,rna psychiatrist has determinedrnthat she is not a threat to herselfrnor others, and a judge has endedrnher court-appointed guardianship.rnWhile the lUinois State Police havernrefused to repair the damage that theyrncaused to Mrs. Allen’s house, onernmight expect them to offer an apology-rnfor the standoff. Instead, IllinoisrnState Police Director Terrance Gainerrntold the Associated Press, “I thinkrneverthing has played out fairly.” Ofrncourse he does: the State Police purchasedrn$104,000 in new equipmentrnjust for the standoff.rnMARCH 1998/37rnrnrn