Next Time, Boys

There is a scene in the movie Cinderella Man in which the hero Jim Braddock’s character confronts a New York sportswriter who had written some nasty things about him when he lost a championship bout early in his career. Braddock, played by Russell Crowe, recounts the sportswriter’s words, which included this closing line:

“… A sad and somber funeral, with the body still breathing.”

Although the mood at today’s White Sox game—the home finale for the season—was not necessarily sad and somber, it was bittersweet, and it was most certainly a funeral with the body still breathing. Barring an unprecedented collapse by the Minnesota Twins this week, the White Sox will join the ranks of teams that failed to make it to baseball’s postseason the year after winning the World Series. This situation has been a long time coming—as of Sunday the Sox were 30-38 since the All-Star Game—and nearly 3 million fans paid for the privilege of watching it all unfold. The Indignant Citizen was among those fans, for 13 games, anyway.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The Sox were supposed to win it all again this year and prove they weren’t just a one-hit wonder. This was supposed to be a dynasty, overseen by players with good contracts: not too long, not too expensive. Instead, they teased us. They cast off some of last year's players that were considered expendable (center fielder Aaron Rowand) or dead wood (pitcher Orlando Hernandez) and brought in exciting new faces (designated hitter Jim Thome and pitcher Javier Vazquez).

None of it quite clicked, though, not the same way it did last year at any rate. Not that the team stunk up the joint. Sure they lost some games they should have won, but plenty of good teams go through funks. These guys just never managed to put it all together at the same time. When the pitching was on, the bats disappeared. When the runs piled up like bribe money at city hall, the pitching imploded. The result was a mediocre season with winning streaks that occasionally conjured the old magic and that was punctuated with magical plays that we all felt would be “the turning point.” None turned out to be that point, though, and as often as not the Sox followed up big wins with emotionless losses, often to the same team they had demoralized and embarrassed the night before.

A season of that led to today’s contest, the last home game of the year, against the Seattle Mariners. Although the scoreboard announced the crowd at 37,518, at least 10,000 seats were empty. After all, the Bears were on and looking to go 3-0 on their young season. They are going to the Super Bowl, Bubba. Screw the White Sox. But the fans who went to the Sox game saw a good one. The Sox won 12-7 behind good pitching by Freddy Garcia, two home runs by Paul Konerko, a home run by Joe Crede, one by struggling Brian Anderson, and a grand slam by the streaky Juan Uribe. There were lots of fireworks and a nice video montage tribute after the game. The team stuck around after the final out to acknowledge the fans, who gave them a standing ovation and loud cheers.

But unlike last season’s final game, when the cheers were meant to propel the team into the final week of the regular season on the road, and on to the Central Division title, Sunday’s cheers had a strong “thank you and see you next year” feel about them. Some of the players won’t be back. Scott Podsednik is probably gone, so is Freddy Garcia, possibly Javier Vazquez, maybe Joe Crede. . . . This is what happens to teams that fail to repeat, or even make the playoffs, after winning a championship. They get broken up. Old pieces get shipped off and new pieces are brought in. This is professional sports.

And next year, long about February, the White Sox will again begin pushing their ticket packages. Nine games, 13 games, season tickets. The Indignant Citizen likely will not be among the buyers next year. Three years of planning summer weekends around baseball is enough. Last year baseball seemed like the most important thing in the world. This year, not so much. There are more important things, better ways to spend time. The Indignant Citizen is still a Sox fan, he always will be. But he will catch his games in person less frequently next season. Baseball will be background noise, not the main attraction.

There is a big city out there, lots of things to do and see. Many things to write about. There will be less time for baseball, less time for the White Sox. But they will understand. Hopefully they won’t even notice the Indignant Citizen isn’t there. Hopefully they will be too busy winning.

It’s true what they say. There IS always next year. That is the magic of sports. And the magic of life is that there is always tomorrow, there is always this afternoon, there is always next hour, there is always the next word; there is always another opportunity to do it just a little bit better than you did it before. Seizing those opportunities separates the contenders from the also-rans. It is the difference between the playoffs and a long off-season; between fulfillment and frustration.

We were, of course, talking about the White Sox, not about Life, and the two are not synonymous, or analogous. So since the Sox’ season is effectively over, and since the home fans had a chance to acknowledge the end in person today, it seemed appropriate to eulogize the season. But what to say? They didn’t really “give it their best,” nor did they “valiantly come up short.”

No, in order to turn disappointment into hope, we must look ahead, not backward. So in that spirit: “Next time around, boys. Next time around.”