The Athletic had
a story this week on White Sox rookie outfielder Daniel Palka, whose popularity
is taking on cult-like dimensions. As
one fan put it, Palka is like a ringer at a sixteen-inch softball game who has
even brought along beer.
Palka thinks
“it’s kinda funny how much I kind of fit in on the South Side as opposed to any
other big league city, you know?” Yes, I
do, Daniel. I played just enough
softball to recognize your silhouette and smart mouth. Crack wise and hit, that’s all any Sox fan
could ask for. Oh, and do both against
the Cubs.
My daughter,
living far from her father’s baneful influence, has fallen for what’s being
called “Palkamania,” all on her own. As
Clare sees it, “He’s insane,” which she means as the highest of
compliments. The girl has a soft spot
for anyone who can hit the ball as hard as she did.
The danger is
that Palka turns into another Joe Charboneau, a one-year wonder for the Indians
in the early ’80s. It could happen,
though I have my fingers crossed it won’t.
Palka is 26 and on his third organization; a trade and a release may
have humbled him while giving him a sizable chip on his shoulder. The smart mouth has something to prove, and
that’s good.
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