60 years ago, the White Sox won a pennant for a thrilled Chicago — and then played miniature golf

They weren’t supermen like the Yankees. They were scrappers who worked like crazy to get ahead, just like the rest of Chicago.

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Three White Sox outfielders — Al Smith, Jim Landis and Jim Rivera —pose for a photo, left to right, at Comiskey Park in 1959.

Three White Sox outfielders — Al Smith, Jim Landis and Jim Rivera —pose for a photo, left to right, at Comiskey Park in 1959.

Sun-Times archives

You would have thought the Beatles were coming to Evergreen Park. 

Instead, the excitement and preparations in our neighborhood were for a handful of Chicago White Sox, winners  of the 1959 American League Pennant, who would be making an appearance for the grand opening  of the miniature golf course at 95th Street and Fairfield Avenue.

Sunday, Sept. 22,  marked the 60th anniversary of the team that won a dramatic game against the Cleveland Indians to clinch the American League championship. Mayor Richard J. Daley’s fire commissioner turned on the air raid sirens to celebrate, and some people thought the Commies were coming. 

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It was an occasion of gravity and joy. There had not been a Chicago pennant winner since the 1919 team, which had lost in the World Series and was subsequently nicknamed the Black Sox following evidence that the Series was fixed.

I was 10 years old in 1959, excited about the team for which I had every baseball card, and which my father and mother, aunts and uncles all loved.

That was partly because the Sox were not a mythical collection of high-powered super stars like the Yankees’ Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra. Rather, they were scrappers like Louie Aparicio, Nellie Fox, Jim Landis and Al Smith. They ran and hustled and played great defense, working like crazy to get ahead just like the rest of their fellow Chicagoans. 

And they were real, since we had seen them at the Back of the Yards Carnival, and now they were coming to our own little town and to the new miniature golf course just three blocks from our house.

Best of all, my brothers and my sister Rosie and I were going to be big shots, since we all worked there.

We would show up every morning in the summer. And if the putting greens were covered in puddles from last night’s rain, we’d get down on our hands and knees with a sponge and bucket to sop up all the water, for which we’d be compensated with two free passes to play golf.

The asphalt covered with green outdoor carpeting was hard on our knees, and the sun was hot on the backs of our necks. But the job ensured we’d get to be on the premises, front and center, when our baseball heroes were due.

On the big day, we waited hours for the Sox to arrive. Finally, around 3 p.m., they pulled up in a Cadillac. A few regular looking people exited the car first, but no sign of the Sox. And that’s when my older brother Jim told me that the men dressed in slacks and short-sleeved polo shirts were, in fact, the ball players.

They were tall and younger than my Dad. And my sister Rosie gushed about how cute one of them was. And then our boss, the manager of the golf course, got on the P.A. and introduced them: Jim Landis, All Star center fielder; Bubba Phillips, hard hitting third baseman; “Jungle” Jim Rivera, the headfirst sliding outfielder who kept the dugout loose; and Billy Pierce, southpaw pitching ace.

My disappointment that MVP second baseman Nellie Fox and base-stealing leader and shortstop Luis Aparicio were not among them all but dissipated as I felt the palpable tension of the waiting crowd.

For the grand opening, the four athletes competed against one another in a game of miniature golf; so the crowd split up into four clusters surrounding each golfer, like at genuine PGA tournament.

I found myself part of the Jim Landis crowd, and we watched with reverence as he putted under a windmill on one hole, across a watery moat and through the castle door of another, and past a swinging bowling ball on a pendulum that could knock an errant putt to kingdom come.

Landis, I figured, was the one my sister was sweet on, with his short, neatly combed black hair. He was tall and lean and wore pressed slacks and penny loafers. He reminded me of actor Jimmy Stewart, though a much quieter version.

On the hole in which you had to putt up a steep ramp into one of three rain gutters flowing onto the green, I found myself right next to him as he lined up his shot as the crowd got quiet. 

“How’s Little Louie doing?” I said.

Immediately, I felt my brother’s elbow jam into my ribs. He whispered harshly to shut up, saying I made Landis feel bad.

I looked at the crowd and felt myself turning red, wishing I could disappear, when Landis came to the rescue:

“Luis is great, son,” he said. “He told me on the phone just a couple of days ago that he can’t wait till next season.”

The crowd broke into applause, and I didn’t feel like such a jerk anymore. I stuck with Mr. Jim Landis for all 18 holes.

Meanwhile, Jungle Jim Rivera had his own gallery in stitches, maintaining a comedic monologue while golfing, eventually beating the others with a ridiculously low score, including several hole-in-ones. 

That night, it didn’t rain, but I returned to the course the next morning to help clean up, still feeling the magic of the Sox celebrities. 

Professional ball players, yes, but kind and down-to-earth men. And one in particular, a gracious hero,  like the ones Jimmy Stewart played in the movies. And a sports team that united the entire city in a historic time of pride, hope, and happiness.

David McGrath is emeritus professor of English at College of DuPage and author of THE TERRITORY. mcgrathd@dupage.edu

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