What Hitless Wonders?

Jose Abreu hit another homer and drove in four runs last night in the White Sox 11-4 win over the Tigers.  Abreu leads the majors in homeruns and rbi’s.  So, why don’t I feel more excited?  It’s all about roots, I think.

I grew up a White Sox fan in the 1960s, when the Sox led the American League in team ERA four out of five years, 1963-1967. (They finished .001 runs behind the Orioles in 1965.)  For Sox fans then, you wanted Gary Peters and Juan Pizarro pitching as often as possible, and batting as often as possible, that’s how bad Sox hitters were.  Having never been exposed to power in my formative years, it always left me a little cold, starting with Dick Allen and going on to Ron Kittle, Frank Thomas and now Abreu.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m ecstatic the Big Hurt made the Hall of Fame and went in as a White Sox; the man could hit, as a career .301 batting average and 521 homeruns attest.  But hitting alone doesn’t win pennants or divisions.  In 2004, the Sox clubbed 242 homeruns, which got them all of four games over .500.  The 1964 White Sox hit 106 homers, which brought them to within a game of the Yankees and first place.      

The really good news here is that this is all proof positive of the existence of God.  I love pitching and have a homerun hitter for a child; that’s what you call divine irony.  We took Clare to a softball pitching camp the summer between sixth and seventh grade.  For never having thrown windmill style, she did pretty good, nearly making the cut as someone who was supposed to get serious about her craft.  I can only imagine what would have happened had she kept on pitching.  Schizophrenia, probably: I love to pitch, I hate pitchers, I love to pitch….

Did I say homeruns leave me a little cold?  I should’ve said homeruns in early spring around these parts usually happen in the cold.  To be honest, I loved it each time Clare went yard.