Oldies

Something about the 606 Trail brings out the Venice (California) in people. Thursday, I rode my Schwinn past a couple on electric scooters; the man had a dog stuffed in his backpack, a terrier mix, I think. The dog was wearing sunglasses. People like to bike or skate to a music accompaniment, oftentimes rap or salsa. Not long ago, I heard “Riders on the Storm,” by The Doors. I kept a respectable distance. “There’s a killer on the road/His brain is squirmin’ like a toad.” The selection Thursday was a bit more upbeat, youngish Springsteen. No vocals, just Clarence Clemons wailing away on his sax. It would be nice to turn the clock back to when whatever song that was first came out. Then again, Jerry Reinsdorf has owned the White Sox for so long, since the 1981 season, very little of the Springsteen playlist dates to the ownerships of John Allyn and Bill Veeck. For White Sox fans, their only hope for either release or salvation rests with actuarial tables. There’s no good reason to follow the team anymore outside of muscle memory. It’s Saturday or May or Wednesday night, I’ll put the game on. Only there’s no there there with this team, just a mouse at the helm and a bunch of anonymous players, any of whom can be shipped off in the next round of rebuilding. Reinsdorf has no personality. Why should his team be any different? And why root for players who, if they show a spark of personality, will be shipped off for daring to express an opinion or decline a contract extension to forgo arbitration? After Jack McDowell; Frank Thomas; Robin Ventura (the player, not the manager); Maglio Ordonez; Mark Buehrle; Yolmer Sanchez; Adam Engel; Lucas Giolito; and Jake Burger, you grow numb, and there’s nothing comfortable about it. Brewers over Sox, 7-6, in ten. Michael Kopech is still searching for answers.