The @WhiteSox have won 8 straight home games and 19 of their last 22 at Rate Field!

The Spurs know how to TAKE the lead, they just don't know how to HOLD the lead. And that's really the most important part of the lead: the holding

BRADEN MONTGOMERY HITS A WALK-OFF HOMER IN HIS MAJOR LEAGUE DEBUT!

Tonight, as I do every year at this time, I’ll be raising a glass to a scared young man, who 82 years ago was preparing to go ashore on the beaches of Normandy as part of an event code-named Operation Overlord. D-Day. I can’t imagine what was going through his mind. I’d be scared to death and I’m sure he was too. But in that first wave was a 21-year-old Private First Class from Henry County, VA by the name of Allen Homer Sink. Fortunately, he would survive that initial wave, participate in battle until it ended in August, then come home to marry and raise a family of four, including two daughters after the war ended. He would also become my father-in-law until his death in 2006. His nickname for some reason was “Hank” and when I asked him how he got it, he said some guy in the Army said he “looked like a Hank.” From the time I first met him, he was a salt-of-the-earth man who was never afraid of anything. He was a carpenter by trade, and he’d stand up on the tallest roofs, grab bumblebees with his bare hands when they tried to persuade him to move elsewhere, and never be bothered by anything. His hands were tough and leathery, but he was a softie. He spoiled his children, complained when my mother-in-law would gripe about something involving one of his alleged misdeeds, and always thought he was fooling everybody when he snuck around the back of the house and lit a cigarette, a habit everyone opposed but he could never part himself from. He could talk your ear off for hours at a time, and I always suggested he become a greeter at Wal-Mart when he retired because then he could talk all day to strangers and none of them would – like his wife and daughters often did – tell him to be quiet for a few moments. Yet for all his love of talking, there was one subject he just wouldn’t discuss. June 6, 1944. Omaha Beach. In 1998, when he was 76 years old, the subject came up again. The movie “Saving Private Ryan” came out and the beginning was gruesome. Reviews said it was incredibly realistic to what really happened that day. I asked Hank if he wanted to go see it. “No,” he shook his head. “I don’t ever want to see any of that again.” He did offer that he remembered the night before when troops were loaded into the boats for the amphibious assault. He said it was raining and that once everyone was in place, they gave everybody ice cream and told them to try to get some sleep. Then the next thing he knew, they were waking everybody up telling them to stay low and head for the beach. No, that doesn’t sound like somebody drugged the ice cream. Not at all. That’s all he would say about the subject, and he never said another word about it until the final months of his life. Alzheimer’s would gradually rob him of his mind, and as his condition deteriorated, memories of the past would briefly spill out. One evening he thought I was his commanding officer and he was back at Normandy. It is the only time I ever saw him where he appeared to be scared. Ever. It reminds me every day of something I had unknowingly taken for granted. The greatest generation did fight in and win World War II, then did incredible things over the next 50 to 60 years after the war. But many carried unspeakable memories from the War, ones they would never talk about and carry inside them to their graves. Those veterans lost a piece of themselves in battle they would never, ever, get back. I mean, how can you at the tender age of 21 storm a beach, see friends die only a few feet from you, wonder each night if you will wake up alive the next morning and then return home a year later and try to pick up on the same normal life you had before you left? I told him once that after seeing “Saving Private Ryan”, I understood why he was never afraid of anything; after you’ve made it through something like that, everything else pales in comparison. So tonight, I raise a glass to Hank and the 150,000-plus men, who like my father-in-law, were very young, very scared, and still charged that beach, paying a price that even for the survivors would last the rest of their days. Rest In Peace...

Just after midnight on June 5, 1968, Robert F. Kennedy finished his victory speech in the Ambassador Hotel ballroom with the words "and now it's on to Chicago, and let's win there." He had four minutes left as a conscious man, and the way those minutes unfolded still haunts American history. To save time, his bodyguard led him through the hotel kitchen. RFK did what he always did: he stopped to shake hands with the workers. He was reaching for the hand of Juan Romero, a 17-year-old busboy, when Sirhan Sirhan stepped forward and fired. The photo everyone knows is Romero kneeling on the concrete floor, cradling the senator's head. The boy pressed a rosary into his hand. Witnesses heard Kennedy ask, "Is everybody OK?" Romero told him yes. Kennedy answered, "Everything's going to be OK." He died the next day. He was 42. Consider what that one moment took. Two months earlier, on the night Martin Luther King was murdered, it was Kennedy who stood on a flatbed truck in Indianapolis and broke the news to a Black crowd, speaking off the cuff about his own brother's killing for the first time in public, quoting Aeschylus from memory. Indianapolis stayed calm that night while a hundred cities burned. Now, in the space of nine weeks, the country lost them both. His funeral train ran from New York to Washington, and something happened that nobody planned: more than a million Americans appeared along the tracks. Factory workers holding hard hats over hearts. Little League teams at attention. People standing in rivers to see it pass. The train ran hours late because the crowds never stopped. Juan Romero carried that night for the rest of his life. For decades he believed that if Kennedy hadn't stopped to shake his hand, he might have lived. He finally visited the grave in 2010 and said he felt the senator would have told him to be proud, not sorry. Whatever 1968 was supposed to become ended on that kitchen floor, 58 years ago today.

City Hall cherry picks gun violence data & neglects to acknowledge the tragedies that cause people to feel unsafe. This is a horrific mass shooting in the Back of the yards. I'm heartbroken for these families and everyone who lives with violence in their neighborhoods. They are all in my prayers. share.google/kVBZBdmZZ6kau2E…