It was one of those crystal afternoons; the dandelions in the outfield at McKinley Park were just beginning to wave their snowy heads. We were practicing cut-off throws from the outfield. The previous day, we had beaten our arch-rivals, St. Rita, and become champions of the South Section of the Chicago Catholic League.

Coach K called to us from the gray steps of the park field house, "All of you guys, come over here." The team gathered on the field house steps. "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." He stopped, his eyes reaching each one of us, he continued, "I was just told that our school principal got a call from the mayor's office and arrangements have been made for us to play a three game Championship series in Comiskey Park." We sat there frozen, just for a second, and then an eruption of exuberance spilled out, pounding, grabbing each other and shouting with the realization that we were actually going to play baseball in the home of the Chicago White Sox and not one, but three games!

The following Monday at 1:00 PM, my cousin Bill, our right fielder, and I got up and walked out of our classroom to the cheers of our classmates. We went to our lockers below the stands in the gym and found brand new uniforms. No patches on the knees or holes in the socks. The uniforms were smooth, light gray wool, a little itchy, but who cared? They had royal blue piping, large block numbers, the school's name De La Salle emblazoned across the front and best of all, our names lettered on the back above the numbers. Wow! We changed quickly and boarded the school's bus, a 12-year-old Greyhound Bus that smelled like horses had been recently stabled in it. Luckily, it was only a quick ride from the school to 35th and Shields.

As we got off the bus, there before us, the magic sign "Comiskey Park, Home of the Chicago White Sox." We hurried through the main gate and up the stairs that led to the field; as we reached the top step, our field of dreams unfolded before our eyes, the green grass, the skin infield, the gleaming white bases and foul lines streaming to the outfield walls, the seats, the scoreboard and blue sky beyond...Suddenly, one of us got the idea that we could actually hit a ball into the seats at Comiskey Park; a few of us grabbed bats and ran out toward third base, then began a hail of baseballs raining toward the left field wall. As I crossed the foul line, I stopped. The feel of the infield was like walking on a fine carpet. I remember thinking, how could anyone misplay a ground ball on a field this smooth? (We were used to playing on infields as bumping as a washboard and littered with stones that when hit could easily propel a ball into one's face.) The coach, just coming up the steps, irritated by our display, yelled for us to stop acting like kids and to get our asses out there and collect those balls. As we ran to the stands, I remember thinking, "I hit a ball into the left field stands at Comiskey Park. No one has to know I was using a fungo bat while standing at third base."

Game time was 3:00 PM. We knew our North opponent would be tough. They had a pitcher who had won 11 games and lost only one, but we had Larry who had 11wins and only two losses for us that year. We were designated the home team.

Though the first seven- and one-half innings, it was a defensive battle with good pitching and both teams coming up with outstanding defensive plays. Our shortstop, Rich, who would become an All-American Notre Dame made two athletic over-the-shoulder catches of foul balls down the left field line, one where he tumbled into the stands, the crowd held its breath and then gushed wildly as he held up the ball and the umpire signaled a putout.

In the bottom of the eighth, there was still no score; I was collecting splinters on the bench, as usual. Our coach had taken to calling me Eddie. He was a great admirer of Bill Veeck; when he needed a base runner, he would use all five foot four inches of me to coax a walk out of the opposing pitcher. He snapped at me to get a bat, of course, he growled his usual caveat, "For God's sake, don't swing!"

As I walked to the on-deck circle, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach beating their wings. I picked up three bats to take a practice swing, two went flying. The coach shot me a withering glance and barked, "Stick to one." The pitcher completed his warm-up tosses, and the umpire motioned me to the batter's box. Pounding in my head the ever-familiar chant, "For God's sake, don't swing." I had heard this admonition each time I went to the plate, and that was only five times that year. I raised the bat and got ready. The first pitch came in belt high, "Strike!" Wow, that was a shocker; I had strikes call on me before, but usually, only after the ball count was high. The next two pitches were high, and I relaxed a little. But then a curve that broke perfectly. "Strike two!" the umpire bellowed. My heart nearly stopped; there was no way I was going to be called out on strikes. The pitcher wound-up, the ball sailing right down the middle, "don't swing, don't swing," I swung. A click, a tiny little tick on the bat, I took off. The third baseman was charging in, his bare hand reaching for the ball. As I neared first base, I listened. No smack! I was safe on first, the first base coach was patting me on the back, but I knew I dare not look at Coach. Luckily for me, he was way over in the third base dugout.

But I was on first base with the potential lead run and no one out. Our shortstop, Rich, a fine hitter, was next up. The fans chanted. He hit a rising line drive, but it was right at the left fielder. Next up was our centerfielder, Jerry. He was a very popular teammate because his dad made the best home-made wine on the south side, but that's a story for another time. Although he was our best percentage hitter, he struck out on three pitches.

Holy Cow! Just like that, two outs, and I am still standing on first base. Up came Joe, as a pinch hitter. Joe was a good friend; he and I usually collected splinters together. Joe worked the count to 3 and 2, making me very happy because now I could take off with the pitch. The only problem was Joe kept fouling off pitches; the number reached five, my legs felt like over-stretched rubber bands. "Please Joe, hit one fair." Finally, on the tenth pitch, a screamer to right center; I was off as I was rounding second. I saw the third base coach, Brother Gabriel, all 6 foot 4 inches of him, jumping up and down, waving his arms toward home. As I touched third base, I heard him yell, "Get your boney ass moving!" Lucky for me, the relay 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. The next batter, our first baseman, popped up to the shortstop. We went into to the top of the ninth ahead. Henceforth, Joe was known as "Jolting Joe" and I was "Boney Ass."

In the top of the ninth, the North champions had their 3, 4 and 5 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 pocketknife in the last of the eighth.

Larry, our pitcher, seemed cool, but my knees felt like Jello left in the scorching sun as I trotted to my position. I fielded the practice grounders and caught the throw from the catcher without a muff. "OK, not so bad," I thought. We threw the ball around the infield and I took a deep breath and went to my position near the edge of the outfield grass.

Larry got the first hitter on a ground out to third. But the second hitter hit a towering infield fly. I looked up into the afternoon sun. "Oh God," I said to myself, "I can't see the ball." Then, to my great relief, I heard our shortstop, Rich, calling, "I got it." I made sure to get out of his way, as he capture the ball in the web of his glove. The third hitter worked the count to 3 and 2. Our fans were screaming; girls were covering their eyes and guys were yelling and stamping their feet. Larry wound up and sent a sizzling fastball right down the middle. The batter uncoiled and swung, a wind shattering swing, then the sweet, sweet sound of the ball smacking into the catcher's glove. The game was over, and Larry had pitched the first no hitter in the history of the Catholic League Championship series.

However, lady fortune was not so kind in the next two games, we lost 7 to 4 and 4 to 2. And although I finished the season with an amazing batting average of 1000, one for one with five walks, my fondest memory of high school will always be... rounding third and hearing the coach yelling "Get your boney ass moving!"