What the White Sox want to see is whether Michael Jordan can drive the baseball as hard as he drives that red Corvette around town.
There has been no so such evidence yet, but don’t ask spring training to hurry. It wasn’t built for the fast lane.
“I’ve got to be patient,” says Jordan. That would be a good idea even if it weren’t also the company line. Then again, Michael’s definition of withdrawal-his retirement from competitive sports lasted four months-might apply toward the crash course that awaits.
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But on Tuesday, the first of his designated media availability days, Jordan merely confirmed what we all know. He has come many miles, he still has many miles to go, and it has been a long winter. The specter of anybody, let alone the world’s greatest athlete, putting a bat on a ball while warmly framed by green grass and blue sky is slightly intoxicating, to borrow from Bill Veeck.
Jordan, who shows race-track potential in his car, didn’t even exhibit warning-track power in the cage. Line drive to left field. Flare to right. Solid grounder up the middle. But to all those youngsters beyond the outfield fence he failed to reach, no matter. Peering through a slight crack beneath a billboard, they cheered whatever he did. When Jordan came their way with glove in hand, they sang, “Happy Birthday.” He’ll be 31 Thursday, when it still will be too early to determine Jordan’s future with the White Sox, if any.
Is this a hoax? Only if Jordan is being trotted out as a decoy while management scouts Mike Maziarka, a left-hander who threw practice tosses again Tuesday. The team’s computer expert, he has spent many hours lately with Jordan, generally at a distance of 60 feet, 6 inches. Security stays a lot closer. Next week, Maziarka and his ilk will give way to real pitchers arm-wrestling for real jobs. Then and only then will it be getting a little too late to say it’s too early.
“Ideally,” said General Manager Ron Schueler, “you’d like to see Michael after 450 or 500 at-bats in the minors, which could happen. Two weeks after the Bulls’ season ended, he told Jerry Reinsdorf he had the baseball bug. Michael’s made a lot of progress.”
Indeed, with all due respect to the purists, the reality of Jordan at Ed Smith Stadium didn’t denigrate the game’s sanctity. If Marge Schott can insult humanity, if Vince Coleman can fling firecrackers into crowds, if Steve Howe can find a place in the bullpen after doing drugs times seven, Michael Jordan can think about playing ball. And get this, naysayers. Jordan’s already scrutinizing his swing: Got to get my fanny in and hold my head still.
“I’m not going to be any sideshow,” Jordan said, addressing the obvious.
“That’s why so many of you press people are negative about this,” Schueler contended. “Because he’s an inconvenience, he’s extra work for you.”
In right field, where Jordan will dwell pending further notice, the Sox presume he’ll be able to outrun a few balls. On the basepaths, between huge strides, Jordan loses his cap, a la Willie Mays, who wore his a half-size too large for effect. So the question is Jordan’s hitting, and the Sox are being extremely careful about their comments. They are awed, but they are also curious. They dare not characterize baseball as Jordan’s hobby or whim on the chance he’ll cash in that million-to-one chip.
And it’s Michael’s project, by the way. Not Reinsdorf’s or Schueler’s or that of some marketing genius. If you believe Harry Caray’s theory of relativity, it’s also a natural. Caray, no admirer of the Sox owner, contends Reinsdorf would have moved the Sox to St. Petersburg a few years ago were it not for Jordan. Reinsdorf would have had to sell the Bulls and leave town for his own safety, so he opted to stay put. The gospel, according to Harry.
Meanwhile, back at the batting cage.
“Would I ride a bus in the minors?” Jordan said, eyes twinkling. “If it’s a luxury bus.”
See? He’s already talking like a ballplayer.