It was a beautiful day for a wake–and for a birthday, our friend Neil (now and forevermore 39) reminded us as we drove down to Comiskey Park last Sunday morning. There wasn’t a cloud in the pale blue sky, only a certain cool slant to the sunlight, reminiscent of college football games. On the way, along Monroe Harbor, we passed the festive balloon arches of the AIDS Walk Chicago–an occasion in keeping with the spirit of the day even if it wasn’t on our agenda. We arrived early in the Comiskey neighborhood, shortly after 11, more than two hours before game time; but the streets and sidewalks were already bustling, with a hive of activity just north of the stadium, near a tent put up by SportsChannel to both encourage and monitor the celebrations. We parked in one of the new lots surrounding the new ballpark, then walked back past the tall, nut-brown stadium–still under construction–to the center attraction, Comiskey Park.
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It was, nevertheless, built to last, and last it did, and that became its main charm. Viewed from the traditional spot, behind home plate in the grandstand, Comiskey had the solid, unadorned look Chicagoans have come to take a perverse pride in: the way the blocky, two-tiered bleachers fit into the grandstand gave the stadium an appearance of wide shoulders, and, as those seats were always so difficult for batters to reach, the park always seemed big, as big and boxy as one of Al Capone’s suits.
There was that peculiar mix of smells found in the picnic sections, where the aromas of cut grass and fried food moiled, and where before a game the pitchers would trot past so close we could hear the crunch of their spikes on the gravel of the warning track. There were 50,000 people filling the place for a bat day double-header–25,000 of them kids tapping the bats persistently against the concrete, demanding a rally. (How did our parents endure that?) There was the night when Baltimore pitcher Jim Palmer changed speeds so adroitly, spun his curveballs and sliders so sharply, that what was so difficult for the batters to fathom suddenly became obvious to us, and a whole new realm of the game opened up.
Throughout the last month, everyone–from manager Jeff Torborg to the meanest fan–was citing the team’s renaissance this year as the revival of classic White Sox baseball. There was a staff of young, promising pitchers coming of age, a quality of all the great White Sox teams, even the 1977 South Side Hit Men (who included double-figure winners Francisco Barrios, Ken Kravec, and Chris Knapp, as well as 15-game-winner Steve Stone). There was speed up and down the lineup, but most of all in the outfield, where Ivan Calderon, Lance Johnson, and Sammy Sosa all stole 30 bases on offense and stole extra-base hits from the opposition on defense. There was heady coaching by Torborg and his staff, especially defensive spotter Joe Nossek, now the leading in-house candidate for new general manager. The Sox defensive alignment deposed that of the Oakland Athletics as the most unusual–and successful–in baseball. Combined with pitching taught to play to these alignments, the Sox improved their earned run average to one of the best in the league. In one instructive night in Milwaukee, they played their outfield like so against Robin Yount: left field to pull, center field to slice, and right field almost on the foul line. With the Sox pitching him outside, Yount hit a pair of would-be doubles straight at Sammy Sosa, who didn’t have to move a step to catch them.
We remember watching on television once when a fire in one of the grandstand grills sent fans out onto the field. The fire was soon put out, but while the smoke cleared the fans ruled the grass, with a line forming to run from third to slide into home. After a few minutes the fans were told to clear the field for play, and the game resumed. In 1983, the Sox clinched a tie for first, and we went out on the field. The Kansas City Royals were the only other team still alive in the West–and they were losing. The Royals’ game was broadcast on the scoreboard television, and when we watched them rally we left the field. If anyone tried to grab a fistful of turf, there was always another fan there saying, “Hey, save it for after the World Series.” That was also the case the following night, when the Sox won to clinch and we went out on the field whooping and hollering and thinking, as we would later joke,
