An unfortunate encounter on the Dan Ryan leaves you with nothing to do for a while, so you find yourself watching lots of baseball. There are worse ways to kill time, Josh Lewin and the Wimperoo notwithstanding, but by and large it was bad baseball, so bad that the remarkable tux Vince Lloyd wore to ’70s night at Wrigley Field couldn’t dress it up.
And this was before the White Sox’s astonishing Pitchers Liquidation Sale–all major-league arms must be moved immediately!
What’s going on? You could grow up here believing Chicago was the center of the baseball universe. Two teams, each with a deeply passionate and knowledgeable following. Two leagues, which meant everybody worth seeing came through every season.
Several years of covering the game and visiting major-league cities didn’t change that impression. In the midst of sifting through a lot of manufactured hype for the ill-fated A’s-Giants “Bay Bridge Series” of 1989, I remember thinking, “Man, if this were Chicago. . .”
Well, this is Chicago. But only if they keep diluting the playoffs and blur the distinction between leagues, as they’re threatening to, is there the remotest chance of a Cubs-Sox postseason series in the forseeable future.
What’s going on? What is the cause of this malaise that has robbed the country’s No. 1 baseball town of its energy and passion? How did we become Kansas City?
An unfortunate encounter on the Dan Ryan leaves you with nothing to do but think for a while, so. . .
Up north, the problem is pretty basic: a shortage of star-quality players, or talent, if you will. Beyond the ballpark and the lead announcer, the Cubs’ lack an identity–they’re neither a power team nor a speed team. And if pitching and defense are the game’s essentials, it’s no wonder they’re 23 games under .500.
But only nine under since that 0-14 start, as Josh Lewin would remind us.
Conferring franchise-player wealth on Sammy Sosa does not make him a franchise player–he strikes out a third of the time, he chases high fastballs with a fervor matched only by its futility and his bat goes ominously quiet for alarming stretches.
Mark Grace hits well, fields better and is great in the clubhouse, a true pro. But his lack of pop at a power position is a problem on a team with only one home-run threat in the lineup . . . and how that comes to be on a team playing at Wrigley Field is another story.
Brian McRae seems to have lost it overnight. Ryno? Thanks for the memories, sir. You too, Shawon.
The kids? Doug Glanville looks like a fourth outfielder on a good team. Kevin Orie has a presence about him, but with 25 RBIs at another power position, he makes Grace look like Hack Wilson. Kevin Foster has no margin for error if he can’t keep the ball down, and Jeremi Gonzalez is finding the going tougher his second time around the league.
The rest of the staff is . . . well, there’s a reason Terry Mulholland and Kevin Tapani have been with five teams apiece. And Mel Rojas might be the Cubs’ worst investment since Ernie Broglio cost them Lou Brock.
Yep, get your tickets here.
You remember those championship teams Andy MacPhail put together on a shoestring budget in Minnesota and you expect better. Then you remember that his general manager is a former Met and you suspect sabotage.
To the south, meanwhile, the yard boss had it right when he conceded that the White Sox are just not a very appealing team, despite the apologist blather of the see-no-evil TV crew. Somebody slept through history class.
Sox fans have always valued effort and desire as highly as gaudy statistics–overachieving Nellie Fox and ultraexuberant Minnie Minoso are two of the most popular players in franchise history.
The current Sox bring you bundles of talent in Frank Thomas and Albert Belle, but neither is a threat to take over Michael Jordan’s town. Thomas is a truly great player–well, hitter–but he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all. In fact, he projects a puzzling petulance that alienates would-be fans. As for Belle . . . who knows? His pathos would be sad if it weren’t self-inflicted.
Even among millionaire mercenaries, the All-Star Game means something; a symbol of achievement, an occasion for pride, if nothing else. The Sox had one star beg off because he feared for his safety and another opt out because he needed the rest.
That’s almost as distasteful as quitting on a season, which is what their bosses have done.
Not exactly fan-friendly behavior. And they wonder why nobody cares?
