End and 'Bye

We sat in the bleachers to watch the White Sox lose the last game of the season to the Minnesota Twins, aka the worst team in baseball, by a score of 6-3.  Chris Sale gave up an inside-the-park homerun to Byron Buxton on the first pitch of the game.  It was downhill from there.

We still found ways to enjoy ourselves.  Baseball is a game of small rituals, always to be savored.  Sale warmed up in the outfield, to cheers.  When he walked in to the dugout, he received a standing ovation.  A young woman did a nice job singing the National Anthem.  Tim Anderson hit a double that one-hopped the wall in left and didn’t so much run as he flew to second base.  Fans may soon find a place in their hearts for Anderson as they have for Sale.

Some things at soon-not-to-be Guaranteed Rate Field I can do without, starting with the statues meant to honor team greats.  As God is my witness, you’d be hard pressed to see more than or two differences between the “likenesses” of Frank Thomas and Paul Konerko.  They must get these figures out of a giant Mold-A-Rama like the ones at Brookfield Zoo that make the little plastic animals.  And then there’s the sound system, pumping AC/DC straight into my ears.  The switchover to the stadium organist was as jarring as a jet hitting an air pocket.

When a game goes bad, you can always people-watch.  I had no idea fans could be so close with beer vendors.  I counted two embraces and one heart-felt comment from a slightly inebriated fellow one row down from me.  “I thank you for your service,” said he.  The best line of the day came from a vendor who announced in the seventh inning, “Last chance to pay $8.50 for a beer, guys.”  What do you think he meant by that?  I tried not to stare too much at the woman in front with the massive star tattoo on her neck, with “White Sox” in the center.  Some stuff is best left alone.

Baseball is a game of small rituals.  My father always took me for hotdogs after a game, so I took my wife and daughter to Johnny O’s on the corner of 35^th and Morgan.  It’s pure Bridgeport, with the stand located in a half-basement; the counter person has to look up to take your order.  I had my annual mother-in-law, a tamale on a bun covered with chili.  What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I think.

By the time we finished, Robin Ventura had already become ex-manager of the White Sox with the announcement he was stepping down.  To his credit, Ventura said the team “probably needs a new voice, and I have to be big enough to understand that.”  Too bad the front office didn’t realize that years ago.