The large crowds pouring in and out of Wrigley Field are no longer so offensive now that the Cubs are playing better; that is, the people in the crowds might still be offensive, from person to person, but the Cubs’ attracting sold-out crowds is no longer so objectionable. For a while there, it was almost disgusting that the Cubs, kicking the ball around like cast-offs from the original New York Mets, were drawing packed houses. Loyalty–so often cited as one of the prime characteristics of fans of the Cubs–had little to do with it; the motives that brought the fans to the park in such large numbers were deeper and baser. Certainly, there were those who came because they had bought their tickets when snow was still on the ground last winter, but there were also those–a great number, in fact–who went to the game simply because it was the thing to do, because that’s what the old gang had decided upon that day, or because all their Simpsons T-shirts were dirty and they needed to buy more. These were people who approached a baseball game the way a baby does: as a total experience, not as anything of substance in and of itself.
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This, of course, is a delightful attitude in its place, one we’ve often adopted ourselves and one we’re certainly tolerant of when it comes to real babies of the one-year-old variety and thereabouts, but in recent months at Wrigley Field this attitude ran amok. The quality of the play was noticeably bad, but that really didn’t matter. The game itself wasn’t merely secondary; it was beyond consideration. When and where it took place was all that was important, because it was the site of the party. We left the stadium early on more than one occasion, and the thought that people were still in there, enjoying themselves, was, yes, repugnant. Baseball was something that ought to have meant more to the fans, and it certainly should have meant more to the players, and we looked back over our shoulders at the stadium the way one looks at one truant leading another away from school–wishing we could be so stupid, but knowing we were right. Which only made us feel curmudgeonly.
Clark replaced Dwight Smith, providing a perfect instance of that age-old baseball lesson about a player filling in for a more talented teammate and yet somehow improving the club because he answers its needs better. Dwight Smith is an able player, almost certainly a .300 hitter at the major-league level–a rare commodity these days–but, during the Cubs’ slump, his offensive skills answered none of the team’s problems, while his defensive skills created problems of their own. He approaches the outfield the way an intern approaches his or her first rectal exam: with one glove, eyes closed. At the plate, he has a wonderfully constructed swing, as level as if built by a carpenter, but this alone does not a major-leaguer make, and at this point he is looking more and more like the African American Rafael Palmeiro.
The recent turnabouts of the Baltimore Orioles, the Cincinnati Reds, and our own White Sox have shown that, while the game is based on individual versus individual–pitcher versus batter, base runner versus outfielder–all facets of the game are interrelated. Dependable middle relief sets up better starting pitching and better late relief. Better defense makes for better general pitching, and scoring runs makes for more tactical pitching (i.e., working ahead in the count, throwing strikes). When the Cubs began playing better defense and scoring runs, the pitching got better, too, and the team began to streak. Greg Maddux revived to win five straight after losing eight straight, and rookies Mike Harkey and Shawn Boskie both began to develop consistency. Neither has anything unusual about his pitching motion; both are sound fundamentally, with Harkey possessing a better fastball and Boskie an erect, prep-school posture while delivering the ball. Both have a remarkably humorless presence on the mound, the dour demeanor of medical students, and we’ve come to like that. In fact, Boskie might have contributed to the Cubs’ turnaround by overstepping the usual bounds of rookie behavior. The Cubs’ bullpen– amply aided by the defense–blew a lead for him one day last month, and in the clubhouse Boskie all but berated his teammates–polite but firm. He said he was tired of coming into a locker room that was more like a morgue every day, and that he didn’t know how long it could go on. If Dawson had said the same thing, it would have sent shivers through the whole team, and at first we thought someone would put Boskie in his place. Yet no one did. How could anyone object? The kid was right.
