The
worst time of my life as a baseball fan had nothing to do with the White Sox
won-loss record. The team was terrible
in the late 1960s before bottoming out at 56-106 in 1970. But it never fazed me. I was young, naïve, optimistic and soon to be
rewarded with Chuck Tanner pulling rabbits out of his managerial hat for the
next five seasons: Anyone for Wilbur Wood
starting both ends of a doubleheader?
No,
the worst time for me was in the early ’90s, when the Sox were very good, led
by a core of players including Jack McDowell (a right-handed version of Chris
Sale), Frank Thomas and, yes, Robin Ventura.
I felt absolutely no connection to that team. Jerry Reinsdorf had threated to move to
Tampa, of all places, in 1988 if he didn’t get a new, publicly funded
stadium. He got it, and Comiskey Park
was torn down to make way for a ball mall.
I found it impossible to forgive or forget.
So,
I watched ballgames on TV to cheer against what had always been my team. I had no idea that the child sitting next to
me on the couch would be feeling something entirely opposite; Clare was growing
to love what I had turned against. I soon
had a rabid little baseball fan on my hands.
I either switched my allegiance to the Cubs or made my peace with the
situation at 35th and Shields.
I made my peace and have since enjoyed being proven right about what
constitutes a real ballpark and enlightened ownership.
After
going through that, I can deal with the Cubs’ success. It’s driving Jerry Reinsdorf crazy to the point
he’ll either end his embrace of mediocrity or explode. I can wait for either. In the meantime, Chicago could use a
feel-good story, up to a point. Let the
Cubs make the World Series and win three games, even; it’ll take everyone’s
mind off the murder rate and the presidential election and the coming of winter
and…
Just
don’t let them win a fourth game. I’m
not that mellow, and neither is my daughter.
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