The Art of the Tank

With Sunday’s fourth straight loss in Houston, the White Sox find themselves with a record of 30-60.  If they keep up the pace, they’ll lose 107 games, or one more than the 1970 team, the all-time losers, if you will.  In which case, I will have been witness to, arguable, the two worst-ever seasons for a team that’s been around since 1901.  This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy; assuming our president even understood the game.

Now, here’s the thing—107 losses won’t even guarantee next year’s top pick in the draft, whoever that might be.  The Royals and Orioles are the proud owners of even worse records than the Sox while the Marlins and Mets (hello, Todd Frazier) might also give them a run for the money, or basement.  Oh, what wicked webs we weave when first seek to…tank.

They ought to sell tickets to this tussle in a pig sty; oh, wait, they already do, and people aren’t especially interested in paying good money to watch some very bad baseball.  Maybe that’s just as well.  The White Sox can keep following their “we will promote no rookie before his time” plan, and next to no one will notice.  But they’ll still keep charging an arm and a leg for concessions.

Some things never change.

Tiniest Sliver of Hope

What a disaster this year has been for the White Sox and, more importantly, their fans.  Nobody expected the team to be this bad, winning just a third of their first 90 games.  At least we can take solace in the development of Avi Garcia, assuming Sox GM Rick Hahn doesn’t rush off and trade him..

Garcia came to the White Sox as part of a three-way trade in 2013; one day, we had Jake Peavy, the next Peavy was shipped off to Boston and Garcia came over from Detroit.  The buzz on the newest member of the White Sox was that he had the tools to be another Miguel Cabrera.  Mostly, Sox fans were just happy he wasn’t Jake Peavy.

Garcia hit .304 in that first half-season on the South Side before missing most of 2014 with a shoulder injury.  The next two seasons were an exercise in frustration, both for Garcia and Sox fans.  At 6’4”, Garcia looked the part of a power hitter, not unlike Aaron Judge, but he struck out too much, that is, when he wasn’t grounding out.  Then came last season.

Talk about turning it around.  The 26-year old Garcia batted .330 with 18 homeruns and 80 RBIs to go with a .380 on-base percentage.  Naturally, people wondered if he could post similar numbers this year.  Through the end of April, the answer was pretty much, No.  Then he went on the DL with a hamstring injury.  For reasons best known to himself, Garcia reverted to 2017 when the Sox reactivated him June 22^nd.

Garcia hiked his average from .233 to .282, with eight homers in his last thirteen games.  I don’t know what’s more irritating now, listening to people debate whether they should trade him (for what, another outfielder?) or seeing how he was pulled in the middle of yesterday’s game against the Astros when his hamstring flared up.

When it rains it pours, I guess.

This and That

As if watching my daughter get married last Saturday wasn’t emotional enough, I then had to give the first of three toasts at the reception.  Luckily, Clare had provided the perfect opening line when she first informed me of this responsibility:  “Remember, Dad, it’s a toast, not a roast.”  I turned it into a little of both.

This gave me the chance to call out the child who dialed 9-1-1 at Grandma’s (never suspecting they’d call back and I’d pick up the phone) and who dented the PT Cruiser on the way to softball practice in high school (and who finally confessed to the crime six years after the fact).  It also allowed me to note that Clare’s wedding day fell on the ninth anniversary of the travel tournament where she hit five homeruns in two days.

With all that said, I was then ready to wish my daughter and son-in-law a love that would accompany them from here to eternity.  After the applause—polite or sincere, I couldn’t say—died down, I performed one last fatherly duty by telling Clare not to swing at anything in her eyes.  Better late than never, I say.

Time Has Come Today

According to a Forbes’ Magazine story from last month, MLB attendance is down 6.6 percent from the same time last year and is at its lowest average in fifteen years. As you might expect, Commissioner Rob Manfred is concerned.  Maybe they need more homeruns.

I mean, that’s what supposedly saved baseball after the 1994 strike, a PEDs-infused homerun barrage courtesy of Bonds, McGwire, Sosa et al.  But wait, now we have ostensibly clean players bashing away, too, Judge, Stanton, Trout et al.  Have fans grown bored by the long ball?

I have, but I’m just a White Sox fan, who was brought up on good pitching, sound defense, and speed; that formula had hardly any room in it for power.  Needless to say, the whole launch-angle thing leaves me cold.  All it does is encourage teams to seek bigger, stronger players who can hit 115-mph homeruns and pitchers who can throw 100-mph fastballs to strike out said hitters.  Loads of fun, that.

On Sunday, the Mariners beat the Royals 1-0.  For the season, Seattle is 26-11 in one-run ballgames.  The contest took all of two hours to play.  Somewhere, Mark Buehrle is smiling along with this old White Sox fan.  Of course, the Mariners may be a little upset that they didn’t get to sell another hour’s worth of overpriced concessions.  But I’m willing to bet the 38, 344 Mariners’ fans on hand couldn’t have cared less. 

On the Road Again

LeBron James has left the building known as Cleveland, yet again.  James is moving to LA to become a Laker, for four years and $154 million, with an out-clause after year three.  What can you do but wish the man well, and advise him that such moves have consequences.

Even Cavaliers’ fans must know that NBA stars rarely stay put for long; Cleveland had James, lost him, got him back, and now he’s gone again, saying very nice things about northeast Ohio on his way out.  I wonder, though, if what James the athlete has done will affect his chances for public office.  How to put this?  You move around enough, and eventually you turn into Hillary Clinton, who tried to sell herself as both a Cubs’ and Yankees’ fan.  Oh, that went over well on the South Side.

If James had stayed in Cleveland, that would have solidified his standing in the community.  He could’ve taken over as a player-coach or dictated who should be on the roster, and no one would’ve cared.  What would have mattered was his commitment to place, now, not at some point after his playing career ended.  Maybe he still has an Ohio voice and perspective on issues, but it will come with a West Coast accent that not everyone in the vicinity of Lake Erie will appreciate.

While You Were Away

While I was busy being the father of the bride and emerging from the attendant fog of wedding toasts and dances, the White Sox announced five international signings, with the players hailing from either Cuba or Venezuela.  If only my team would bother to watch more local TV.

Lately, the Chicago Bandits have been running commercials, and they’re quite good, at least as good as anything proclaiming “Ricky’s boys don’t quit.”  But they can sure stink up the joint.  Somebody from the Sox front office might want to take a trip on the Tollway to the Bandits’ stadium.  Those girls sure look like they don’t quit, either.

Given the inability of Chicago teams to scout talent in their respective backyards, I’d be more than happy to give directions.  Heck, I’ll even drive Rick Hahn out there, no charge.

Wedding Bells

After four days, the emotions are starting to recede, and I can remember at least some parts of Clare’s wedding.  It’s safe to say my daughter was a beautiful bride.

By my count, there were six softball teammates in attendance, plus one.  I put it that way because that girl was a senior when Clare was a freshman, so they only played together for a year, and, in a way, she was Chris’s guest, or at least she’s married to a former Elmhurst football player Chris invited to the wedding.  That, and she was the incumbent second baseman when Clare arrived.  “You’re the reason my daughter ended up in the outfield,” I said in introducing myself at the reception.

My daughter and her friends cleaned up quite nicely, and two of them in particular spoke with some passion when I asked if they missed playing.  I know I miss watching.  This must be what they mean by growing up and moving on.