Konerko, Contd.

A sellout crowd in excess of 38,000 fans—the three of us included—poured into the Cell on a beautiful Saturday afternoon to watch as the White Sox retired Paul Konerko’s number 14.  Clare had me out the door nearly 2-1/2 hours before game time, and she shot video throughout.  For my money, the best part of the ceremonies happened at the start, when Konerko walked in alone from center field.  Like ZZ Top says, you just can’t beat a sharp-dressed man. 

A crowd that paid anything but blue-collar prices for their tickets once again was able to imagine that they and their favorite Sox player were both somehow working class.  But what kind of lunch-pail guy can afford a Wayne Gretzky hockey fantasy camp or to play ice hockey two or three times a week in Arizona (and not for the Coyotes, which he could probably buy for a song)?  It’s more accurate to see Konerko as a power-hitting perfectionist, never satisfied with his swing or his stance, always tinkering, always soliciting advice.  Anyone who makes the majors has an inordinate amount of talent.  What counts is what they do with that talent.  More than most if not all of his contemporaries, Paul Konerko was forever honing.

All this emotion translated into absolutely nothing for the Sox in their game against the Twins.  Chris Sale struck out ten batters, again, only to give up two homers in a 4-3 loss.  Jose Abreu looked lost at the plate, striking out twice en route to a 0 for 4 day.  And manager Robin Ventura did what he does best, which as far as I can see is nothing.  Either he didn’t tell Sale and Abreu they can have their numbers retired too one day, if they will it.  Or Ventura said it in too soft a voice for anyone to hear or care.