Sometime in the early ’80s, Snuffy, real name James Olszanski, a neighborhood kid I went to grammar school with and spent countless hours in the park with, entered Comiskey Park with me one afternoon to see what kind of trouble we could get into or what we could steal.

As we wandered through the park, we stumbled upon the hotheaded Jimmy Piersall, the White Sox broadcaster and former player. Jimmy was notorious for his volatile temper during his playing days, and that feistiness hadn’t faded.

Jimmy was wearing a neck brace on this day due to a recent altercation with a local beat reporter.

Snuffy, famous for his smart-alecky mouth and sharp tongue, decided to harass Jimmy as we passed him near the players’ locker room entrance.

At the time, “How’s your neck?” was a running joke at Armour Park. I believe Johnny Tito started it. He didn’t care how your neck felt; it was just something he always said. It became a ritual. Even today, if a bunch of Armour guys are together, you might hear it once or twice. Sometimes, it might come with a back slap.

So, with a shit-eating grin, Snuffy asked the irritable Jimmy Piersall, “How’s your neck?”

Jimmy must’ve been having a miserable day. Seeing Snuffy’s grin, he exploded, yelling and screaming at us. As we backpedaled away, Snuffy added, “Relax, you’re gonna strain your neck.”

Jimmy went ballistic, lunging toward us, reaching out to grab us as we scrambled away. We kept yelling, “How’s your neck?” as we ran, laughing uncontrollably.

Suddenly, we heard footsteps behind us. Two security guards were rushing toward us.

Snuffy and I took off. As we hit a maze of ramps, we unintentionally split up. The two security guards stayed with me.  As I came down to the end of the ramp, another security guard was approaching from the opposite direction.  I was standing on the concourse directly behind home plate.

With limited options, an escape route suddenly hit me.  I flipped a railing and jumped, falling 6-7 feet, landing on the netting behind home plate.  The netting was for protecting the fans from foul balls, but it was my escape plan on that day.

All three guards stood at the railing, looking at me in amazement as I scaled the netting down to the field.

No time to think, I just ran until I found an open door. I bolted out and didn’t stop until I reached the park.

Some kids were playing baseball as I arrived, breathless and laughing at what had just happened. As I told them the story, we suddenly heard a voice over the Comiskey Park intercom:

“Ino Calise, turn yourself in immediately. Ino Calise, this is a serious matter. Please turn yourself in.”

I wasn’t sure if they were saying my name or mumbling gibberish. Either way, we laughed. Turning myself in was never a consideration, and never would be.

About an hour later, while I was playing baseball with the other kids, Snuffy came walking into the park, freshly released by security. After all, what were they going to do? Charge a teenager with harassing Jimmy Piersall?

As we laughed and recounted the story, I asked Snuffy why he snitched on me.

With the same grin he had when he angered Piersall, Snuffy said with conviction, “I didn’t give them your real name.”

Technically, he was right.

I’m just glad we never robbed a bank together.