Chicago fans aren’t comfortable unless they’re worried. Remember the Bulls’ first-game loss to the Los Angeles Lakers in the 1991 NBA finals, or their seven-game slugfest with the New York Knicks in 1992, or losing the first two games to the Knicks last spring, or even the feeling everyone in Chicago shared as the Phoenix Suns rallied in the sixth game of the finals this summer, before John Paxson hit his three-pointer. Those moments tend to be forgotten in the afterglow of victory–ah, we knew it all along, never doubted–but deep down they’re what we savor. Chicago fans think that sports without anxiety is like an Italian beef sandwich without hot peppers. That’s why I almost welcomed the White Sox’ erratic play the first couple of weeks in September. Suddenly, everyone I ran into was talking about the Sox. Sure, most of them were saying, “I don’t know, they’re not gonna make it,” but that’s just the Chicago fan’s way of getting involved. Panic, ergo empathy: I worry about the White Sox, therefore I am a White Sox fan.
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Of course, where I was concerned it helped that I had surrendered all fear. At some point in the last month I came to accept Gene Lamont’s Earl Weaver imitation and the team’s even-keeled, almost aggravating professionalism at face value. There was Lamont on the field before the game talking about how he hadn’t expected Joey Cora to play as he has played this season; about how, as he was only too eager to point out, Craig Grebeck had been the starting second baseman when the team broke camp, before an injury in a Las Vegas exhibition game left Cora the opening-day starter; about how he hadn’t expected Cora to turn the double play the way he has or hit the way he has; about doubts that Cora, at five feet eight inches, 155 pounds (in cleats, soaking wet, just out of the shower, with a dripping Indian blanket over his shoulders), had the stamina to last through a 162-game schedule. There were Cora and Lance Johnson and Ron Karkovice and the newly returned Ivan Calderon lashing balls to all fields in batting practice, all under the watchful, sober eyes of coach Walt Hriniak, and without even a hint of the batting-practice banter and bullshit games that surround the batting cages of most September contenders. There was Jack McDowell, downplaying the losing streaks just as he downplayed the winning streaks.
Anyone who has waded through the above statistics can see part of the problem: 40 homers is impressive to anyone, bestowing instant MVP-contender status, but the rest of Thomas’s talents are elusive. They need to be explained to the Saturday night fireworks fan. Thomas is a great player because he is huge (six feet five inches, 257 pounds, a former tight end at Auburn) and has great hand-eye coordination, but he is truly great because he is deliberate, thoughtful, considered. He will not swing at a bad pitch–he just won’t–and that makes him a special talent. I’ve written before that Thomas has a threatening manner at the plate as he awaits a pitch, but the more I watch him the more I think that’s wrong. Willie Stargell was threatening; he wasn’t as big as Thomas but he had a limber, menacing way of waving the bat at the pitch–a flick past the head, like a propeller being cranked–that combined size with strong, flexible wrists. Thomas has size to spare, but the big cheeks of his face give him a pleasant baby-fat appearance, and he keeps his forearms firm as he waves the bat; there’s something of the priest delivering last rites in Thomas’s patient readiness. Patience, in fact, is key. His entire demeanor expresses something calm, poised, and unforgiving, a tiger crouched in the reeds, with an attitude of “I’ll get you this time if you make a mistake, and if I don’t get you this time I’ll get you next time, and if I don’t get you next time I’ll get somebody else, because I’m going to get what’s mine.”
On the other hand, there have been those rough outings of McDowell’s; after winning his 21st game he stalled, and he failed to make it out of the first inning against the Tigers. Belcher ran out of gas in the middle innings several times before pitching well last Sunday against the A’s. Most ominously, the Sox were unable to pull off the old third-and-first delayed double steal in Kansas City. Ozzie Guillen took off from first, the Royals catcher faked the throw through, then threw to third, catching Johnson off the bag. That was heads-up managing by Lamont–the kind that wins games down the stretch against would-be spoilers–but it frequently goes foul against teams that are prepared, like teams in the play-offs. It reminded me of the 1987 AL play-off game in which the Minnesota Twins catcher, Tim Laudner, caught the Detroit Tigers’ Darrell Evans off third base with a pitchout and quick throw to third baseman Gary Gaetti.
