Is this heaven? – Yahoo Sports

“You can’t win a game with just home runs. You need a crooked number. Anything more than one,” Mike Huff tutored, as he stood beside a mammoth score card taped to the wall. 

I was obtaining a master lesson in scoring from former White Sox outfielder and Roberto Clemente Award recipient Mike Huff, and ignoring my dad on Parents’ Day. Yeah, you would do the same if you had the former MLB player all to yourself.

“Crooked number! So that’s where that saying comes from,” I say foolishly from my little air-conditioned chair in the Diamond Suite.

White Sox, you’ve outdone yourselves this time.

Some games are unforgettable. Twenty-two years ago to the day, I had been in the bleachers on July 26, 2004, and watched Minnesota Twins outfielder Torii Hunter steamroll White Sox catcher Jamie Burke, causing him a concussion and an overnight stay in the hospital. I have despised the Twins since that day, and none of my Twins fan friends will ever hear the end of it.

Exactly 22 years later, my family and I arrived at the private elevator for the Diamond Suites, for an invitation-only Parents’ Day experience for writers covering the White Sox. Most fans will remember this day as Munetaka Murakami’s two-dinger, six-RBI bobblehead day, which was special in its own right. As a career actor known for, “Oh, that was you?” and “That’s not you, is it?” in the acting world, I’m the equivalent of a Triple-A utility player past their prime. Yeah, I’ve been in things with the famous big-leaguers, and maybe you recognize me from that one playoff game off the bench, but my career is wholly unremarkable. Acting is my job, but writing is my passion and purpose, so this invitation meant a lot to me.

The White Sox culture change has been crystal-clear from the launch of the 2026 season, but some older, more grizzled fans have suffered whiplash trying to catch up. Enter my dad, Mr. Grizzled himself. At the beginning of this season, he was still a naysayer, whose distrust was widely broadcast any time the White Sox made one bad play. Through goading and provocation (from yours truly), he entered the gauntlet of becoming a CHSN subscriber, but he watches every game with his arms crossed and a pout, as if to say, “prove to me you’re a real baseball team.”

[Note: For any White Sox fan with a burnt elder that you want to bring back to the team like you’re the pied piper, please refer to this evergreen quote gifted to us from wise sage Sam Antonacci.] 

But Dad’s arms weren’t crossed in the private elevator, nor were they crossed as he wheeled his scooter into the Diamond Suite. A big banner was displayed welcoming us to Parents’ Day, and pictures of us were printed and placed in frames on the table (three of Dad and I, and one of my grandpa at Old Comiskey, which made me tear up, and I’m taking a break to cry right now as the letters on my screen have become blurry).

To my family and many others, baseball is more than the game itself. It’s generations of family, enjoying (or suffering through) a game together, creating memories through traditions and fostering a sense of community. My family watched the game with the family of a fellow reporter, and when the kids started chanting, “boo, Cubs” and their grandmother remarked apologetically, “kids pick up a surprising number of things at home,” it felt like watching the game with our own family.

Despite the handcrafted pennants bearing our names, the custom baseball card portraits that were sealed to commemorate the day, the memorabilia and the red carpet treatment in the suite, the most special part of the day was talking baseball with former White Sox players, and those within the organization. I haven’t been the gentlest to certain players (I’ve apologized to Benny), broadcasters (I will not apologize to Schriffen) or owners, and yet, I was able to chew the fat about these things with some special people. We even gossiped. That’s a privilege that’s so personally significant to me, I won’t print the dialogue. 

Having these individuals at your fingertips is a dream for a sports journalist, because writers’ diminutive forearms are formulated to type, not swing lumber. We don’t possess the experience of a lifetime of grinding, recovering from injuries, playing with the best of the best, and the biggest obstacle, the mental game. There are aspects of baseball that mere pedestrians will never understand despite unlimited vocabularies and vivid imaginations, so having access to those who do feels like swimming in a sea of liquid gold. 

After the White Sox met the challenge of their formidable June schedule, my dad started believing. The 2026 White Sox are an entirely new team, and although I’ve been scorned for the idealistic way I’ve predicted their ascension into winners, the possibility is becoming more of reality every series. 

After a much-needed win to avoid a sweep by Houston, everyone in our suite was invited onto the field to play catch with our families. I warned my dad not to drive his scooter onto the grass or Roger Bossard would materialize from his portal and whack him with a bat.

“His dad was the groundskeeper before him!” Mike Huff chimed in from beside us. I hadn’t even seen him there.

Hi, White Sox front office. You’re sleeping on White Sox treasure Mike Huff. Can we get this guy on air? The whole day, Huff was in the background making the day better and more special, and he did that without it being his job. He listened to all my loquacious tidbits, like how many free White Sox hats I’ve collected from the Goose Island free hat spot (RIP) so I’ll never buy a hat ever again, or how tall Jeff Samardzija looks in real life, or why I find [redacted White Sox person] annoying. Mike raised me White Sox facts, personal experiences, hot goss, and friendliness. I understand that he’s probably tied up with the kids programs, but seeing or hearing more of him would be excellent. Mike Huff was the highlight of my day.

The highlight of the rest of my family’s day came at the end.

While on the field with our mitts, we were tossed one of the game balls by a security guard. Dad couldn’t join in, so he watched from the warning track as my husband and I played catch (I had a non-broken-in kids’ mitt that couldn’t get the job done, and was actively experiencing heat stroke, so I looked like a rookie). As we were leaving the field, Will Venable’s daughter ran to him with arms outstretched, and he scooped her up into an embrace. She’d been in the suite with us, and I didn’t want to interrupt this sweet moment, but my dad and husband were happy to.

I walked over to hear them praising Will, and he shook our hands. We all got to tell him what a great job he’s doing, and damn, he’s both humble and kind. What a guy.

My dad’s arms permanently uncrossed after that. When he got home, he watched the game highlights twice, and the full game replay. It’s safe to say that he’s fully on board with the 2026 White Sox, and his 2025 wounds have healed.

Thank you, White Sox, for giving my family and I memories that will last a lifetime.