Between drills and practice fields, Sammy Sosa paused to be famous. The world pressed up against a cyclone fence. Or enough of the world to be dangerous. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” the world hooted and begged. Sammy Sosa grinned. Someone tossed a baseball over the fence for Sosa to sign.
The ball hit Sosa in the cap, bouncing off the bill. Had Sosa been hatless, it would have hit him in the face and who knows what that ball might have been worth, the baseball that put out Sammy Sosa’s eye.
Sosa picked up the ball, signed it, tossed it back and continued feeding scraps of paper and programs back through the fence. A license plate was offered for signature, but it wouldn’t fit. Sosa moved on. The media tagged after him.
“Hit 76 this year, Sammy,” someone yelled from the other side of the fence.
Sosa rolled his eyes and never stopped smiling.
This may not be how it will be every day from now on, but every day from now on it will be different from what it was. Sosa is too much of a curiosity now to ever again be the guy who misses the cutoff man, which he did on his first drill from the outfield.
Sosa is a friend of the famous and boon companion of heads of state.
“Mr. Clinton, he was very nice,” Sosa was saying. “And Mrs. Clinton is a wonderful lady. I hit a home run off the president.”
Funny, that didn’t make the news. Sosa was at the State of the Union address, but I don’t remember any pickup games on the White House lawn.
“The president of Venezuela,” Sosa said. “(Hugo) Chavez. He had pretty good stuff too.”
Being adored is too obvious on Sosa, the residue of affection being an extra 10 to 12 pounds, which Sosa calls “bulk,” as if it is there on purpose when why it is there is because Sosa has not had any real opportunity to work it off.
Sosa had to trade in the uniform pants that had been laid out for him for a waist size larger and still they fit like pantyhose. He said he weighs 222.
“All muscle, not fat,” Sosa said, standing and striking a bodybuilder’s pose. There’s plenty of time to make it the truth. That is what spring training is for, though this is the first one for Sosa that gets him out of a tuxedo.
Sosa took his first turn of the spring in the batter’s box. His first swing rapped a smart single between third and short. His second swing boosted the baseball over the outfield fence of Fitch Park, over the red SUV parked there, onto the street and, with one large bounce, over the outside wall of a house and onto the front patio.
Figure at Wrigley Field the ball is across Waveland onto a front porch.
“It’s still the same game; I’m still the same guy,” said Sosa.
Sosa is wrong, of course, on both counts. Baseball is different from what it was at this time last year because Sosa and Mark McGwire changed it from ugly, adult commerce back into a happy, child’s game. At least they made us believe that again.
And Sosa changed from an occasionally conspicuous baseball player into a globetrotting, banquet-haunting, parade-leading, one-name international dignitary.
“Sammy, Sammy,” begged a child who had been hoisted perilously to the top of the fence. Sosa reached up and shook the child’s tiny hand.
“People want five minutes, they want to shake my hand, how can I say no?” Sosa said.
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Sosa will not have a bodyguard, as does McGwire. The Cubs don’t want it. Sosa doesn’t want it. Occasionally he will need a little interference, sometimes a bit of organization. It quickly will become unnecessary if Sosa does not resume where he left off.
” ’98 is over for me,” Sosa said. “You got to put that one away. They already paid me for last year already.”
The next home run Sosa hits will not be No. 67, nor will McGwire’s be No. 71. Still it is hard to let that go, that race to glory. We would have a much harder time adjusting to McGwire and Sosa being ordinary than the pair of them would. Disappointment is a much greater prospect for ’99 than amazement.
“I don’t have to break records no more,” Sosa said. “I just have to go play the game.”
Certainly that is the sane way for Sosa to approach a season after the greatest year of his life. Manager Jim Riggleman said he would take a typical Sosa year, 40 or so home runs, 100 or so RBIs. And Sosa sets the World Series as his goal, not McGwire’s fresh record.
What the world may demand is something else.
“I don’t want the whole world,” Sosa said, “just a piece of the cake.”
Until the pants fit, might I suggest celery.