The period just before opening day was a time of gloom and doom for Chicago’s baseball teams–especially for the White Sox. Not only did no one pick them higher than fifth in the American League West, but most large-circulation magazines–where the supposed experts weigh in–picked them last. Meanwhile, the papers were rife with rumors that the Sox were headed toward a new stadium in Saint Petersburg, Florida, next season. It is testimony to the resiliency of baseball and its fans that, once again, opening day shone on the city; not only did the Sox’s fortunes suddenly seem better than they had appeared, but all the other problems seemed trivial–so much winter nattering, which failed to survive the warmth and clarity brought on by one of the first (and few) Chicago spring days. Baseball, as usual, breeds a dangerous sense of satisfaction, from its earliest moments of the season.
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We were downtown, making bank transactions, at the start of the day, so instead of riding the old, dependable Jackson Park-Englewood line to the park we got on a Lake-Dan Ryan train; it was the first time I’d taken this route to the ballpark (I’ve never minded walking the extra couple of blocks along 35th Street, so I’ve never bothered to change trains in coming down from the north side). Its different vistas seemed to present nothing less than a new way of looking at the entire experience. As we crept out of the Loop and picked up speed we saw the back side of the Metropolitan Correctional Center (or is it the front?) appearing between the skyscrapers; then we moved on down along the edge of Chinatown before descending to the ground and crawling, past the construction crews working on the expressway.
From behind us, the smell of hot dogs sifted up the grandstand stairs, wafted by the wind, and out beyond the right-field seats came the sound, somewhere, of a bass drum calling a marching band to order, soon joined by a series of snares. It was as if opening day were flooding our senses, pouring in from all angles.
The Angels’ starter, the windmill right-hander Mike Witt, looked as impressive as ever. He has an excellent fastball and a sharp-breaking curve, and on this afternoon he was mixing these pitches up with a good, hard-breaking pitch, a slider or split-finger fastball. The first time through the order, the Sox couldn’t touch him. Witt threw a perfect game in the last game of the season a few years ago, and I was wondering if he weren’t going to collect the other all-so-rare bookend on this afternoon. Fisk hit a loud foul in the second but then struck out. Pasqua worked a full count to open the third but then popped to shortstop. Johnson was overmatched by a pitch, checked his swing, and grounded to second to open the fourth. With two out in the fifth, only two of Witt’s 50 pitches had left the infield. Then, however, Fisk marred the magic with a double dropped down the left-field line, and Pasqua followed with an RBI single. Williams then hit a monstrous home run into the left-field upper deck. We heard fireworks (too far under the upper deck to see them) and all of a sudden all was rosy, the Sox were fine, and, as their motto suggests, anything could happen.
