I walked into Ozzie’s office to ask him a question only to find a short, pudgy kid all decked out in a Sox uniform. Ozzie was bantering away with him in Spanish. As the three-year-old or four-year-old turned around, I read across the back of his mini White Sox uniform, “Ramirez” and “10.” It was Alexei’s son and he was excited because Ozzie Guillen was heading out onto the field to watch him hit. Swinging an oversized plastic bat and hitting from the left side, the youngster shot ball after ball around the infield. “Mirra, Ozzie, mirra,” he’d call out, making sure Ozzie was watching him as his dad fed him pitch after pitch. “He swings at everything,” a press observor noted jokingly (I know, even on a Thursday morning, a big league dugout can be a tough, tough place). With one line drive toward second, the little Ramirez took off for first base, his legs spinning underneath him. On to second he ran, and Ozzie headed down to third to be a coach. Around second and onto third the kid “sprinted”, smiling all the way. Ozzie gave him the stop sign and pointed to third base. Running right through it, the kid turned and headed for home. But he was running …. out ……..of …………steam ……..and his sprint came to a hault about 10 feet from home. Alexei pointed to home plate and his now-tired son walked over and touched it, scoring a run. Ozzie applauded.
Merkin has more.