It had not been a baseball classic, but for an opening act, fans seemed content to settle for the Albert and Castillo routine.
So, just minutes shy of quitting time Friday afternoon, those who remained from a crowd of 38,560 arose and implored their heroes to pull off yet another unlikely rally.
Alas, Tony Phillips lofted an innocuous fly ball to center field, and the White Sox accomplished an even rarer feat. They lost their 1997 Comiskey Park debut 8-7 to Dr. Kevorkian’s home team, the Detroit Tigers.
Jerry Reinsdorf, chairman, has plunked down $54 million on the hunch that this franchise finally will get it right this season, that his Sox players will show up so regularly that disenchanted consumers will be compelled to do the same from now through October.
About half the equation materialized Friday, when the combination of excellent weather and frequent bulletins that good seats were still available produced an encouraging walkup sale, especially considering a traffic snarl that probably scared some would-be buyers away.
“I think it’s great,” said Reinsdorf. “If we could have game-day sales of whatever we had today every day–what was it, 6,000?–that would be terrific. A week ago, I was concerned, even though I know it’s going to take the people a while to come back.”
Empty chairs prevailed only in the most distant portions of the upper deck, Hale in left, Bopp in right, a region that will not be used for the Olympic ski jump because city fathers have blithely ignored our suggestion to bid for the Winter Games.
But there was a buzz for baseball on the South Side, particularly in the well-populated Bullpen Sports Bar and along the concourse behind the bleachers. Customers sunned, had beers, smoked cigars, then had a few more beers.
Put all those folks standing on a tram and lift them to the nosebleed area and the stadium would have looked almost full. Either that, or relocate the Bertucci Boys’ ribs to Section 506 and see what happens. Feed them and they will come.
Better yet, Sox players who are so vocal about wanting to be loved must win games like Friday’s, probably not the last 8-7 four-hour marathon on the menu of coming events. When you collect 10 hits and 10 walks from a frightful Detroit staff, you really should prevail, if indeed a World Series is the objective, even if you find yourselves down 7-1.
However, it was not to be, and the aforementioned Albert Belle took defeat so hard that he avoided discussing his devastation afterward.
He is supposed to be kinder and gentler, as per conditions of employment, but he didn’t come any closer to us media mopes than he did to the ball on either of his strikeouts, or on an E-7 adventure when he resembled an octopus attempting to set up a beach chair.
He will have better days, as will Tony Pena, who has not lasted 17 major-league seasons by failing to lay down a simple bunt in the 10th inning. Two runners were aboard with none out when he helped the needy Tigers by popping up.
“We don’t hope we can win, we expect to win,” said Ozzie Guillen. “And the crowd was great.”
There. That’s a better start toward fan-friendly relations than the game, and here’s more good news. An hour after his Chicago coronation, Belle was gamely taking food, as in four cups of yogurt. Man cannot live on all that Reinsdorf bread and water alone.