Will the last Chicago athlete anybody can pick out of a lineup or off the back of a milk carton please report to the departure lounge. Remember, your hockey stick must fit in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you. Have a nice flight and watch your elbows.
The great Chicago jock garage sale has to be just about over, huh? The inventory is pretty much picked over. Now that Chris Chelios is gone, that leaves, who? Frank Thomas, Sammy Sosa and the original sprig of outfield ivy.
Well, sure, there is Mark Grace and Tony Amonte, but they don’t count until they can recognize one another. And Toni Kukoc? Wake him if Bob Costas ever comes back to town. Kukoc may have inherited Jordan’s job, but Ahmad Rashad didn’t come with the bundle.
You look over the Chicago sports landscape and not only do you see rubble, but it is nameless rubble, anybody’s rubble, not even interesting rubble. Just rubble.
Here’s where we are. Kerry Wood is in elbow limbo. Robin Ventura is somebody else’s treasure. Scottie Pippen is second-guessing his new address but not lamenting his old one. Michael Jordan appears to be car-pooling Arnold Palmer’s grandchildren.
And now Chelios, Chicago’s own, who swore he would never go, is off to win a Stanley Cup, leaving the debris of his promise behind, while some new lug named Boris Mironov–not even Bad Boris, just Boris–is left to crack all the heads that Chelios no longer could.
Did everyone leave at once? Say what you will about Gary Barnett, he took all the Northwestern pedigree with him, and there is Phil Jackson opening for a future president while Jerry Krause prowls among the nameless and grateful Bulls.
The area is so sports celebrity depleted that if Rick Majerus shows up at Notre Dame, he will be adding weight to the job–some pun intended–rather than the other way around.
Dennis Rodman is no great loss, like losing an aloha shirt in the laundry, and Albert Belle is still a creeping contagion, no matter how many home runs he took with him. But Chicago’s marquee is greatly dimmer without them.
Even the livestock is absent without Arlington Park. If Cigar came to town today, he would have to stand outside the gate with the rest of the smokers.
Name a Bear, from memory, no peeking. Name the Bear in charge, either the head coach or the head clerk for bonus points and a draft choice to be butchered later.
Say what you will about Michael McCaskey, but he was a target you could identify. His face fit a dartboard perfectly, and any preschooler could do his voice. In fact, every preschooler did his voice.
Now who knows the Bears’ coach from the Bears’ quarterback? Who is the Bears’ quarterback? It seems like the most recognizable Bear is Dan Jiggetts.
Suddenly the familiar face of Chicago sports may be Evan Eschmeyer, who won’t leave town unless taken hostage or declared ineligible by the International Olympic Committee.
Sosa can carry us if he carried baseball, and he did. But a basket as big as ours should have more than a single egg.
Thomas is the single greatest jock still among us, better than Sosa, but he is surrounded by ciphers. This ought to make Thomas more obvious, but what it makes him is more absurd, a lone fool in the footlights.
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And don’t be so sure that Thomas is going to start the season with the Sox. A nod and a shrug Thomas could be gone for a bullpen catcher and a free car wash. Maybe he can use Chelios’ travel agent.
Let’s not panic, but I just had a scary thought. Somebody run and check to see if Michael Jordan’s statue is at least still there. The way things have been going, it could be on its way to Lake Havasu as an ornamental fountain.
How could Chicago sports turn into a flea market so fast? What are we, the home shopping channel? From Air Jordan to Make an Offer, 50 percent off, no returns, no credit cards. In less time than it takes for Chelios to get in and out of the penalty box.
And now Chelios is gone. Chelios wanted to go to Detroit. Detroit? Why not the nearest landfill? Why not the Balkans?
Some of these things do hurt more than others.