The mood was very different at White Sox Park last weekend. Saturday was clear and sunny but a chilly wind blew in off the lake, and few fans turned out for batting practice. The parking-lot attendants, food staff, and other stadium employees anticipated a large crowd, with the Sox playing a team hot on their heels and fireworks scheduled for after the game. But by that time, though the numbers said the playoffs were still possible, the Sox were all but out of contention. Having been swept by the first-place Twins in Minnesota earlier in the week, they were four games back with nine to play when Saturday’s game began, and they’d be playing the young and scrappy Kansas City Royals while the Twins had two series left against the woebegone Detroit Tigers–one of the worst teams in baseball history, in pursuit of the record 120 losses suffered by the 1962 New York Mets. So it was all but over, and everyone knew it.
Twelve days before, things had looked much brighter. The Twins came to town on a Monday to start a four-game series tied for first with the Sox at 76-66. These teams had the two best records in baseball since the All-Star break, with the Twins, at 32-17, having played and won one more game than the Sox. There was a buzz around both squads as they prepared: the Twins’ Torii Hunter lashed at the ball in batting practice while the Sox’ Frank Thomas and Paul Konerko sat silently in the locker room, their game faces on. A crowd of 32,807 was relatively quick to arrive, with the lower bowl packed and the upper deck filling in nicely. The fans cheered starter Bartolo Colon in from the bullpen and pretty much carried him through the game.
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“Every time he got in trouble he went up a notch,” Manuel said afterward, giving much of the credit to the fans. “They wanted him to finish the game, and he kind of fed off it.”
The Sox actually conducted themselves well at Fenway Park, losing the first but coming back to win two gritty games behind Colon–who threw fastball after fastball to Nomar Garciaparra before getting him to pop up and end a critical late rally–and Buehrle, who squandered a 2-0 lead but settled down to win going away. But the Twins were taking three of four from the Tribe, putting the Sox a half game down when they arrived in Minnesota a week ago last Tuesday.
Funny, but for all that it was an enjoyable evening. The angst was over for most Sox fans, who were already resigned to their fate, and those sitting around us in the upper deck displayed the caustic wit that has carried them through 86 summers now. When the grounds crew came out after the seventh inning, a guy behind me said, “They’re dragging the infield–for dead bodies.” People laughed between innings when the Kiss Cam produced a series of reluctant lovers who refused to smooch, and there was something symbolic in that as well, the Sox having promised so much and delivered so little. The frustration erupted in the vociferous boos at the final out. As my father-in-law and I left to beat the rush, during the symphonic medley building to the fireworks, we heard some notes that reminded us of Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique. How appropriate that seemed. And how appropriate that we would turn our backs on the fireworks and drive away.
