Former suburbanite named Rizzo wishes father was seeing these Cubs
Editor's note: Jill Messineo Rizzo, who grew up in Arlington Heights, reminisces about the Cubs' role in her dad's and her family's life. Her brother Jim lives in Palatine, her sister Jeni in Volo and her mother Carole in Long Grove.
I am at Wrigley Field sitting up high on the third-base line, a 6-year-old fidgeting in my seat with eyes peeled, waiting for either the popcorn or ice cream man. As my father teaches my older brother to keep score, I sit between them, silently praying that the next vendor to walk past is not hawking cans of Old Style but rather a cold treat for me on this hot summer day in 1972.
It will be another 10 years before my father purchases his prime first-base-line tickets (in the shade!) with three other buddies, tickets still in our possession today. I can feel the heat of the sun on my face, the contentment of being included in this male ritual of marking the strikes and balls on the paper in my lap.
People often refer to certain songs as the soundtrack of their lives. For my family, our soundtrack has always been Cubs baseball.
My father, James Messineo, born in 1941, grew up on the Northwest Side, where the family moved from one rundown street to the next. My Italian grandfather loved the ponies, and paychecks seemed to evaporate at the track or to the bookie, much to my Finnish grandmother's chagrin, as she had five mouths to feed. Her Scandinavian genes were dominant and my father had hair so fair, he was nicknamed Whitey.
He did not have an easy childhood. Fighting other kids daily on the way to school, he started working at 10 years old. Not always well-behaved, he ran the streets, learning to take care of himself and his brother with his fists.
Somehow, he turned all of his childhood stories into magical tales that became family legends.
A lifeguard at North Avenue beach, he met Carole, the love of his life, at Ted's Sweet Shoppe. They married and had my brother Jim while my father worked and put himself through college. I came along soon after, my sister Jeni seven years later. And then, Whitey and Carole lived the American dream for 52 years together.
Whitey was Chicago to the core. He could never understand my wanderlust. Everything he needed was right there: a large group of friends and family, 16-inch softball and the Cubs. Around our dinner table, the conversation was always Chicago sports teams. My father went to as many Cubs games as he could, but his young family was his first priority. When my brother and I were teenagers, he finally had the time and money to become a season-ticket holder.
And so it began: the halcyon years. Whitey was now a successful business owner and enjoyed every hard-earned penny. Generous to everyone and always the life of the party, travel and long afternoons at Wrigley, followed by expensive dinners in the city, became a way of life.
It seemed impossible, but my parents fell deeper in love with each passing year. They were inseparable and spent their time together golfing or at Wrigley Field. Although he seemed to be always there, he endlessly gave away tickets to friends and clients.
I became engaged to a man my father approved of and we lived walking distance to Clark and Addison. Now and then, we, too, got to enjoy playing hooky from work and spending the day at the park. My father surprised me by hiring the Cubs Dixieland Band to play during our wedding reception.
Not long after, I moved to Charlotte, North Carolina. Whitey called my sons, Anthony James and Nicholas, the hillbillies and regaled them with stories from his youth. Whenever the Cubs were on TV, he did this little jig and burst out into song, which made the boys laugh.
Not so long ago, the phone rang and it was my father. The Cubs had signed a young rookie named Anthony Rizzo. The same name as his hillbilly grandson! I have stopped counting the number of Rizzo jerseys hanging in my sons' closets.
As the years kept going by, my funny, active, beloved father starts to slow down. The Cubs keep losing. There is talk about giving up the tickets. My brother ends up taking half and sells some to a family friend. Each year he works some magic to keep the tickets profitable and manageable for my parents. Whitey schedules his trips to his Florida home around a baseball calendar. Not too early in October, as the Cubs could go all the way! And always home by Opening Day.
January 8, 2016. When the phone rings at 5 a.m., it is never a good call. My mother is stoic and in shock. "My hero is gone," she tells me. His heart gave out.
Over 2,000 people came to the funeral home. My hillbillies are heartbroken. And our technicolored, crazy Whitey world goes gray.
It has been a year of firsts. First birthday without him. First Father's Day without one. And now, after 74 years of cheering for his team, they finally make it to the World Series. And he is not here.
There are different levels to grief. I passed through shock and sadness, depression. I am now at the anger level. How dare the Cubs go all the way this year! Couldn't they wait until next year? My sister seems to take another route. Maybe it's him, making all this magic happen from up there.
My mother is at the game on Saturday. I'm at a Halloween party. I pulled out one of my son's Rizzo jerseys. I am dressing up as a long-suffering Cubs fan.
I am not sure how I will be, far from Chicago and missing my father, who should be here singing his heart out right now. But it's the only thing I can do to keep myself from irrationally getting into my car and driving north for 12 hours to stand on the corner of Addison and Clark.
All I know is that I will be hearing my father's voice in my head. "Don't sweat the small stuff, Jilly."
And maybe if I listen very carefully, I will hear him whooping with joy.