Remember when I wrote that post last September about recording a StoryCorps interview with renowned baseball organist Nancy Faust? It’s going to air this Friday morning, March 15, 2019 on WBEZ in Chicago!

That’s me celebrating with Nancy at Half Sour (our local tavern) after recording the interview last year. (Photo: Joe Jenkins.)

The timing is perfect: Mike, Seeing Eye dog Whitney and I are flying to Arizona tomorrow to stay with Nancy and Joe for a few days. Their son Eric and his girlfriend Ann will be there, too, and we’ll all head to Camelback Ranch on Friday to be at Nancy’s one-day return to the baseball organ bench: She’s performing at Friday’s Cubs-Sox Spring Training game!

The baseball field at Camelback Ranch does not have a baseball organ, but Nancy says that’s no problem: with the help of her sweet husband Joe Jenkins, she will bring her own. “They changed the spot for the organ and asked if we could deliver it Thursday instead of today,” she wrote me in an email message this morning. “So we arranged for a 10 a.m. delivery and can easily get to the airport when you arrive.” Now, tell me: How many people do you know who have baseball organist friends who pick them up at the airport, and, when necessary, bring their own instrument from home to play at the ballpark?

My relationship with Nancy Faust started on a bittersweet day –- the day my eye surgeon told Mike and me that none of the surgeries they tried had worked, From my memoir, Long Time, No See:

The White Sox were in town that day. Going to a ballgame after learning I’d be blind for the rest of my life was probably a strange thing to do, but it beat heading home and sitting on our pitiful second-hand couch and wondering where to turn next.

The White Sox were having a rotten year. There were maybe 8,000 people in the stands. Floyd Bannister pitched, the Sox lost. But it was strangely pleasant, sitting next to Mike with my head up, not giving a thought to eyes or surgery. We each had a bratwurst and a beer. Between bites and gulps and giving me play by play, Mike bantered with other fans, cursing the underachievers on the team. I laughed at the tunes selected by Nancy Faust, the Sox organist–she’s famous for picking songs that play on player’s names. Mike marveled at the endurance of Carlton Fisk, and we both wondered out loud why every time we went to a game, that bum Bannister was pitching.

When Nancy Faust was at the organ and a player walked, you might hear Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” If there was a pickoff throw, she’d likely play “Somebody’s Watching me.” And when the pickoff was successful? The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me.” Nancy was also at the organ when Harry Caray first sang “Take me out to the ballgame” for the seventh-inning stretch at Comiskey Park. And she was the first to play “Na, na, na, nah, na, na, na, nah, hey, hey, hey, goooodbye!” when the opposing pitcher got sent to the showers.

She always helped me know who was batting by teasing the player’s name with a tune. Some of Nancy’s choices were obvious — Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” for players with that number, the theme from “Magnificent Seven” for players sporting number seven on their backs. Nancy invented walkup music, and to my mind, she was better at choosing songs than today’s players are.

I stopped by Nancy Faust’s booth at White Sox Park after Long Time, No See was published in 2003 to sign a copy for her. I was tickled to have an opportunity to thank her personally for helping me track what’s happening on the field, and we’ve been friends ever since.

Mike’s all-time favorite Nancy Faust walk-up tune is the one she’d play for Gary Disarcina. No, it wasn’t “Gary, Indiana” from the Music Man. That is wayyyy too obvious. It was “Have you Seen Her?” by the Chi-Lites.

As for me, I used to think Nancy was at her best whenever Travis Hafner was in town. At a game against the Cleveland Indians, she played “Bunny Hop” for his first at bat, and then J. Geils “Centerfold” his next time up. During our StoryCorps interview she told me that when a streaker once jumped from the stands and ran across the outfield, she played, “Is That All There Is?” That’s my new fave.

The interview she and I did last September was 45 minutes long. The one that airs Friday will be five minutes, tops, but I’m hoping/expecting they’ll leave some of the parts in where she explains where she comes up with all these ideas. Chicago Tribune Sports writer Phil Rosenthal said it perfectly in the opening to his Monday column, where he alerts fans to cue the fanfare for the comeback at the March 15 Spring Training game: “It’s a big week for one of the greatest, most consistent, versatile and innovative players in Chicago sports history,” he says. “That, of course, would be Nancy Faust.”

It’s been years since Beth and I attended a movie at like, you know, a movie theater. Part of that is we filter for kinds of movies that Beth likely can enjoy—dialog-heavy, play-like movies. They’re kind of few and far between, and then when we note one that would be a good bet, we’re late to the draw and find it’s already left the local theaters and maybe we see it streaming, maybe not.

Over the past few months there have been more releases of stuff we’d consider than usual. “Can you ever forgive me?”, “The Frontrunner,” “Wildlife,” and “Green Book” all come to mind.

A scene from Green Book. Click to visit trailer.

Well, on Thanksgiving last week, we headed to our local theater to see a matinee, “Green Book.” I’ll never be accustomed to escalators, electronic ticket kiosks, reserved seating and the absolutely awful popcorn that seems to be standard in today’s multiplexes. Or the reclining seats we scored in the disabled seating section (Whitney came along for the walk). Beth, on the other hand, was horizontal snuggled with her coat as a blanket within minutes.

After endless previews and a Dolby sound demonstration loud enough to damage one’s hearing, the movie finally started.

We both liked it a lot. If you’re a Viggo Mortensen fan (I am), it’s almost worth it just for his performance. If you’re a Mahershala Ali fan (I am now), it’s almost worth it just for his performance. Without question, their combined performance plus that of Linda Cardellini is worth the price of admission.

Because of the backdrop—the Jim Crow South, a North that had and has its own institutionalized problems—the movie is fraught. Some reviews say it sugar coated things and lets racists and institutionalized racism off the hook. I didn’t think so.

I’ve read up on the protagonists—the movie is based on a true story—which is a pretty damn good story without any dramatic help. But movies are movies, and I could tell where liberties were taken to state or, in some cases, overstate a point. There was some predictable schmaltz But I, for one, felt tension—authentic tension—from the start that carried through the movie. The kind where you’re dreading something really bad is about to happen even when something good is happening. That’s good filmmaking.

Everyone’s entitled to their opinions. Mine is that this movie wasn’t made to address institutionalized racism. It was made to tell a story, which it did like only a well-made movie can. And thanks to the movie, a whole lot more people are likely to learn more about the story.

Then, last night, we watched another movie called “Pick of the Litter,” thanks to the generosity of our friend Nancy, who streamed it. I don’t think there will be a whole lot of controversy about this one. (Although, you never know.)

Warning: Rated XXX for puppy porn.

Anyway, “Pick of the Litter” chronicles the birth of a litter of prospective guide dogs, their training and socialization by puppy raisers, they’re guide dog training with an instructor, and being paired with a visually impaired partner.

It was filmed at Guide Dogs for the Blind in California. GDB is on the other side of the United States from The Seeing Eye in New Jersey, where Beth has trained with four dogs. But they operate very similarly. For example, every puppy in a litter gets a name with the same first letter. Poppin, Primrose, Patriot, etc.

A lot of what Beth does in daily life—and I, too, to a lesser extent—is explain how the guide dog process works, and how it doesn’t work, often correcting completely understandable misconceptions.

This movie addresses virtually every question and misconception people have ever brought up. And it just nails the process: the incredible amount of training that has to accompany just the right canine demeanor to make a successful guide. The bottomless generosity of puppy raisers who adopt pups in training, put an enormous effort into socializing and training their charges, and then, give them back to the school after a year.

The incredible thing: If a raiser’s dog flunks out at any point, he or she is typically given first dibs on adopting what becomes known as a “career change” dog. But to a person—and we experienced this when we met dozens of puppy raisers at The Seeing Eye—they deeply want their dog to clear all the hurdles and help someone, someone like Beth, for example.

It’s very well done, painstakingly accurate, occasionally heartbreaking, but—if you need reminded (as I do, oh, every day) how good people can be, I give it four paws up.

That’s Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, a few years back. If you’re on Facebook, click the image to read a beautiful tribute at the Sandmeyer’s Bookstore page.

The spring of 2003 I was without a job—the weekly newspaper I worked for in Champaign-Urbana had closed its doors at the end of 2002. I hung around the office a couple months to take care of the nasty details.

Our son Gus had moved to a facility for the developmentally disabled in Wisconsin a few months earlier.

I was aimless.

Then, Beth’s first book, “Long Time, No See,” was published in April. It was what I can see now as a demarcation in Beth’s life, and in our lives—one of those many lines in a good life that defines “then” and “now.” Suddenly everything was different. A vacuum presented opportunity.

We each grew up in the suburbs. But neither of us had ever lived in Chicago—the city that defined what a city is for the two of us. If not the spring of 2003, then when?

Back when Beth was at Braille Jail (her nickname for the state rehabilitation facility for newly visually impaired people in the near west side of Chicago) her sister and brother-in-law would occasionally spring her for a meal in the nearby Printers Row neighborhood. Beth had fond memories of those bits of relief from living in the blind version of Cuckoo’s Nest.

That was a start for our finding a new home. I did some online research and we made some visits and eventually leased a place a couple blocks from the real Printers Row. That real Printers Row being one block—maybe two if you’re generous—between Ida B. Wells Drive, a major thoroughfare, and the old Dearborn Station, where Dearborn Street ends. Dearborn Station used to be a bustling train depot, but it now houses yoga studios, medical offices, a Montessori school and the like.

Our neighborhood is so named because most of the buildings on our street were originally used by printing and publishing businesses, or those that supported the logistics of those endeavors. (Also, Elliot Ness once had an office in our condo building, but I digress.)

Back in the day, printers relied on natural light to check their work, so the windows in neighborhood buildings are tall and wide. The ceilings are high, too, to accommodate printing presses and other equipment. The neighborhood went the wrong way for a long time, and most of the lovely old buildings were marked for demolition in the 70s and 80s. Thanks to some stubborn preservationists, the visionary architect Harry Weese (D.C. friends, you have him to thank for the design of your subway stations), and pioneering folks who were willing to homestead in Printers Row, the neighborhood was not lost, but found.

Two of those homesteaders were Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, who opened their bookstore long before Printers Row was a sure bet. I first met Ulrich when I was up from Urbana doing a scouting trip. I stopped in to see if Beth might make a promotional appearance for her book there.

“Nein” was the answer. OK, Ulrich didn’t say it in German, but it was firm. Ulrich Sandmeyer hailed from Germany, spoke impeccable English, but you know, once German, always German. He explained that the store is so small it doesn’t well accommodate such events.

But Beth charmed Ulrich (or did he charm her?), who teased her for her unabashed self-promotion. Ellen—who maintains the shelves and window displays in ways that are both artistic and sales-savvy—put “Long Time, No See” in the front window, trumpeting a local author. This, even though Beth had been local for, oh, a couple months. Ulrich also, as they say in the book business, hand-sold a ton of Beth’s books. The German guy was a damn good salesman.

The Sandmeyers, as much as anyone or anything, made Chicago feel like home.

That was, as Humphrey Bogart would say, the start of a beautiful friendship. Sandmeyer’s Bookstore was and is an anchor—the anchor—of what I, totally biased, think is the best neighborhood in Chicago. And the Sandmeyers became the most wonderful kind of friends that one can make as adults. By that, I mean they already had full lives when we met them, as did we. But somehow, they and we found just enough  room for one another.

Sandmeyer’s Bookstore is a polished little gem—every warm, wonderful thing about Ulrich and Ellen courses through it. The wooden floors creak, the radiators clank, the selection is beautifully and intelligently curated with purpose, and there are always witty little novelties at the checkout counter—book lovers’ versions of the candy rack enticing an impulse buy. (My personal favorite was a GW Bush end-of-term countdown clock/keychain.)

Ulrich’s wry sense of humor always astounded me. First, because humor is one of the most nuanced and difficult things to master for a non-native English speaker, and he had mastered it and then some. Second, because like other non-native Americans, he had an outsider’s viewpoint that never failed to open my eyes. I was just another fish in the tank.

He and Beth developed a rich relationship—he came to call the now-closed Hackney’s, our old watering hole—“Beth’s office.” We’d stop by the store just to catch up, talk politics, and have a laugh. We’d run into him outside the store, when he was out taking a smoke break. Like the friendly and crusty beat cop, Ulrich was a comforting, reliable presence to us, and to the whole neighborhood.

Thank you for following along as I get used to using the term “was” when it comes to Ulrich. He died last Friday. I would say “after a long illness.” But, again, humor me: he died of cancer, fucking cancer, goddamn fucking cancer.

I miss him.

I know the drill. I’ll always miss him. The neighborhood will always miss him.

And like the other remarkable people that I’ve been privileged to know, he’ll never really be gone. The last time I saw him was before Amazon announced what cities it would be fleecing for the opportunity to let the company roost. Amazon, let it be said, has not been good for independent bookstores. One of the Sandmeyer’s employees told us the story of how someone once browsed the aisles, picked up a book, and asked, “Do you know how much this costs on Amazon?”

She was astonished.

Ulrich was dispassionate about such things. Or, I should say, he never seemed to take them personally.

I can imagine our talk about Amazon’s decision. I’d get all uppity about it and say good riddance to something we never had.

And I can hear him laughing at me.

Last night when the L.A. Dodgers’ Manny Machado swung and missed so awkwardly at a wicked Chris Sale pitch that he fell down, the Major League Baseball season came to a close. The Red Sox won, which at this point is getting kind of old (my Cardinals fan friend calls Red Sox fans “professional Irishmen”). Nonetheless, I generally root for the American League, and seeing Sale—who labored with mostly bad teams for years with my White Sox—close out the championship was pretty cool.

Unless the White Sox are in the playoffs (an infrequent occurrence), around this time of the year I pick an alternate horse. Sometimes it’s a team/fan base that I least dislike. This year it was fun: I took the Brewers and Astros. The Brewers had a really entertaining team, a smart young manager, and the best radio announcer—Bob Uecker—in the business. He’s funny, yes, but he calls a damn good game, too. And thanks to a little App on our phones (MLB AtBat) Beth and I could listen to him call all the Brewers games.

As far as the Astros, well I can’t help it—we’ve written before about our friend Kevin who works in their front office. I just love seeing him in selfies with players like Alex Bregman after a clinching game. I also wanted the Astros to be the first team to repeat in forever.

Alas.

If you grew up in Chicago on either side of town, you have to learn to savor the World Series regardless of whether your team is in it or not. (In some ways, it’s a lot more pleasant; it’s certainly less stressful.) There’s always some regular guy that plays out of his mind. And games that are incredible for one reason or another. This year, that guy was a journeyman player named Steve Pearce and that game was the insane two-games-in-one 18-inning marathon.

Our pal Nancy Faust will be back behind the organ for a spring training game in 2019.

I also like this time of year because of the anniversaries of the 2005 World Series—the four games my White Sox took from the Astros when Houston was still in the National League. That 18-inning Red Sox-Dodgers game brought to mind a gut-wrenching, 14-inning game the White Sox won. There was much shouting at the TV, and ultimately, screams of joy in the wee hours. (I did not make it to the end of the 18-inning affair this year.)

Speaking of the White Sox, Beth and I saw our friends Nancy Faust, her husband Joe, their son Eric and his girlfriend last week. We caught up, got some great stories about Old Comiskey, past players, Haray Caray—and we had a lot of laughs. They are all delightful people and I thank my lucky stars that, thanks to Beth and her writing, they are our friends.

Still, I always get a little melancholy when that last out of the World Series is made. It’s probably silly to care so much about a game, but hey, it’s my silly. And there’s this: Nancy told us that she’ll be playing the organ for the Cubs-Sox spring training matchup at the Sox spring ballpark.

You know, I went to spring training once when the Sox were in Florida. But I haven’t been to Arizona yet….

One thing I never, ever, ever take for granted is how much each of Beth’s Seeing Eye dogs has meant to Beth and to us. I still remember the days when Beth struggled to hone her cane skills—it was a real struggle for both of us. I constantly worried, she didn’t get around as independently as she does now, which affected both of us and our relationship.

My gals get around, thanks to The Seeing Eye. (Photo: Bill Healy)

And, people treated her differently. I witnessed it and still do. People see Beth with Whitney and they, at the least, smile. And most don’t hesitate to strike up a conversation. When Beth used a cane, they got quiet and nervous and just cleared out of the way. Even when I accompany Beth, it’s different with the dog than with the cane. There’s a palpable nervousness when people see the cane. This is not to harp on them, and plenty of people with a visual impairment thrive without a dog.

But given Beth’s disposition and spirit, Pandora, Hanni, Harper, and now Whitney have been priceless additions to our family.

That’s all owed to The Seeing Eye, a non-profit organization based in Morristown, New Jersey. It was the first guide dog school in the United States, and Morris Frank—a co-founder—crusaded for the use of guide dogs and the right for people with guide dogs to access hotels, restaurants, trains, planes and other places otherwise closed to animals. (I can’t imagine what he’d think of the concept of emotional support peacocks, but that’s another topic.)

The Seeing Eye breeds dogs, matches them with puppy-raisers, then, through an intensive program, trainers spend four months teaching the dogs who make it that far to lead a person with a visual impairment. The dogs that make it through this part of the program are then matched with a human companion who has met the school’s admission requirements. Then, the two of them go through nearly four weeks of on regimented, on-campus training. (For a great look at the process, check out the documentary Pick of the Litter, which chronicles the journey of guide dog candidates. It’s filmed at Guide Dogs for the Blind, a terrific school on the West Coast—and the process at both schools is very similar. FYI, less than half the puppies end up making the cut.)

It’s a big deal, a ton of work, and really expensive. Roughly $50,000 per dog. The Seeing Eye charges students only $150 for their first dog and $50 for each thereafter. Veterans of the military pay $1. From the Seeing Eye web site:

A fraction of the total cost to create a match between person and dog, this fee reflects the student’s commitment to enhanced independence.

Right now, The Seeing Eye is participating in a contest whereby the highest vote getter among three non-profits will receive $50,000.

I hereby endorse The Seeing Eye, and urge you to vote for itat this link:

https://www.nrghomepower.com/nrggives/?fbclid=IwAR2fWjGlPXklla3nB3FDC_me5kmRT3vYRAcFn_1A6Y90LdC6Eh-a19H8ufo

But do it fast. You have until 11:59 ET TONIGHT, October 22, 2018 to cast your vote for the Seeing Eye.