Ultimate Baseball Road Trip (80 page)

In much the way that it is trendy to root for the Red Sox, Yankees and Dodgers in richity-rich circles, the Cubs garner a celebrity following of their own. Among the faithful are household names like Hillary Clinton, Pat Sajak, Bill Murray, Jim Belushi, Vince Vaughn, Billy Corgan, Eddie Vedder, and even Tony Romo.

During one of our trips to Chicago, we bumped into Ronnie Woo Woo at Sluggers after a game.

“Stick around,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to some players.” He then escorted the latest in a long line of surprisingly attractive dance partners to the floor.

By players, we were not sure what Ronnie meant.

“I think he means, like, cool cats,” Josh said.

“No, he means baseball players, and I’ll bet he delivers,” Kevin reassured his friend.

When Ronnie finally relinquished the dance floor, he led us to the bar and introduced us to the ageless Minnie Minoso, who had been sitting in our midst all along.

In case you need a memory jog, Minnie tied Nick Altrock’s Major League record by playing in parts of five decades with the White Sox, Indians, Senators, and Cardinals. He shook our hands, posed for a few pictures, and wished us well on the rest of our trip. He said his favorite ballpark was Tiger Stadium. Josh looked up Minnie on Baseball Reference upon returning home and was shocked to discover that he was more than eighty years old at the time of our encounter. He didn’t look a day over sixty.

A native of Havana, Mr. Minoso began his career in 1949 and initially retired in 1964, before returning to the White Sox for Bill Veeck’s end-of-the-season cameos in 1976 and 1980. He made it six decades in pro ball when he stepped to the plate for Mike Veeck’s St. Paul Saints of the Northern League in 1993. Minnie has hit .298 in his Major League career to date (we’re not ruling out another at-bat or two), and actually recorded a base hit in 1976 at age fifty-four.

But getting back to Mr. Woo Woo. Before we parted, Ronnie summed up his evolution as a super-fan and his philosophy on life: “I didn’t know fifty years ago that I was going to be Ronnie Woo Woo. It just kind of happened. I try to make people happy. It’s great to be healthy and to be outside in the sun for the games. The most important thing, as far as I can tell, is to just be yourself and let life come to you.”

CHICAGO WHITE SOX,
U.S. CELLULAR FIELD

W
hen we last checked in with the good people on the South Side during our first tour of major league ballparks, there was a profound feeling of disappointment, and sadness at what might have been. The ballpark that was to replace the great Comiskey Park, Comiskey Park II many were calling it, had opened its doors to great, um—what’s the opposite of fanfare? The new Comiskey, it turned out, had opened its gates just a bit too soon. You see, what happened to the new yard, built directly across the street from the cozy old one the team had called home for eight decades, was that—nearly overnight—it had become a relic, a monument to large multi-tiered suburban stadiums with little charm, set among a vast sea of parking lots.

In hindsight, the choices that park’s designers made don’t seem to make much sense: concrete over brick; enclosed design rather than open views of the city; five steep decks in lieu of a more intimate design; parking lots in favor of a ballpark neighborhood. But of course, this represents the changes in ballpark aesthetics that the entire country underwent shortly after Comiskey II opened for business. Now we take such ballpark features for granted, thanks to the revolution Camden Yards started that swept across the nation.

And there standing alone, in stark contrast to the little green gem that once stood across the street and having missed the glorious revolution by just a few short years, was Comiskey II. The White Sox and their fans faced a baseball future from which fate seemed to dictate they would be excluded. Their massive stadium was representative of a baseball past that no one was recalling with much fondness. And to make matters worse, the team hadn’t won a World Series since 1917.

And so the good people of Chicago, the fans and management of the Pale Hose, were hit smack in the face with a dilemma: either to hang their heads and bemoan their unfortunate timing, or to put on their hard hats and work boots, and get busy improving things. If you’ve ever been to Chicago, you need not ask which direction the residents of the City of Broad Shoulders chose. They got to work, and through seven phases of renovations have turned their massive monolith back into the ballpark that most Sox fans always dreamed it could be. Now don’t get us wrong, few would place “The Cell” in their list of top five ballparks.

Josh:
Would we put it in our top ten?

Kevin:
No.

But thanks to much thought, renovation and hard work, the White Sox have a home they can be proud of. And though The Cell still has the bones of a Stadium, oftentimes it really is the little things that make all the difference. The nuances are now there, at least on the 100 level, to give The Cell a great game-day feel.

The new Comiskey Park was initially constructed for $167 million, nearly all of which came from a 2 percent sales tax on hotels in the city. In 1986 a bill was passed by the Illinois General Assembly to fund a new ballpark to be built across the street from the old Comiskey. This bill came in response to White Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf’s threat to move the team to Tampa Bay. The pressure created a hurried environment and the rush was on to build a new South Side park as soon as possible. In 1989 Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley—son of former Mayor Richard J. Daley and a die-hard Sox fan—helped break ground on the new Comiskey.

On April 18, 1991, more than forty-two thousand fans poured through the gates with high hopes for the first game at the new park. Comiskey II opened and received favorable, but not gushing, reviews. Remember, this was before Camden so people didn’t have much to compare it to. Sox fans seemed to like it, as the Pale Hose set a new team attendance record in that inaugural year when nearly three million fans visited the new ballpark.

While many of old Comiskey’s attractions and idiosyncrasies were imitated or duplicated in the new park, such as the exploding scoreboard, the only thing brought directly over from the old park was the infield dirt. What was to be the first baseball-only facility built in the American League since 1973, turned out to be overly huge, unfriendly to fans, and sterile. The main complaint was that the upper deck left a lot of concrete showing, was far too steep, and was miles away from the action. It is true that the first row in the upper deck is farther from the field than the last row of upper-level at the old Comiskey was.

Fast-forward a few years, post-Camden, and, rolling up the sleeves of their blue-collared shirts, to work they went on the South Side. The number of renovations is detailed later in the chapter, because as we’ve said, there have been many, but the major improvements to the ballpark include the following: replacing the original blue seats with green seats; establishing an overall color scheme of green and black; resetting the outfield fence to make the field dimensions less symmetrical; the addition of murals to the interior concourses; a tiered concourse beyond the center-field wall; the addition of a black-and-white screen around the top of the upper deck; the addition of statues throughout the park; and the removal of six thousand seats to make room for the addition of a canopy roof supported by trusses. The roof, and its supportive posts and decorative trusses, more than anything create the feel of an older ballpark, one where the elements of architectural theory might actually have been consulted. And while the poles block the view from some of these top seats, in reality, you couldn’t see anything from these seats anyway, so we approve. Architecturally, Chicago has been a world leader for more than a century. So should it be with its ballparks.

Speaking of beautiful architectural touches, there are those who feel the former Comiskey Park was among the best baseball parks ever. It was certainly a quirky little yard, with its own timeless beauty and full of memories destined to fade more quickly if the team would have moved. Could Comiskey have been saved? Should the monies spent to build the new stadium have been spent to remodel the old? Perhaps. One independent study said that it could be accomplished. Another, conducted by the team, said it would not be economically feasible. The stark reality of the economics of the game, as it has become, that enter into discussions such as these are troubling. Fans are left with the impression all the owners care about are luxury boxes and revenue streams from sources other than ticket sales, such as restaurants and retail shops. As rooters, we’re left with a bad taste in our mouths.

Kevin:
As though the public is supposed to help fund a glorified shopping mall.

Josh:
One where there just happens to be a game going on if you’re interested.

Kevin:
But if you’re not, don’t worry. There are plenty of other ways for you to spend your money.

Eventually, whether we like the idea or not, the game leaves our favorite parks in its past. We’re told we can only care for and preserve the old parks for so long. Then we must turn out the lights. And if we don’t agree to pay the price at the box office and concession stands, ownership threatens to move to some place like St. Petersburg, Florida, where the locals don’t even care if there’s a team or not.

Josh:
I hate owners.

Kevin:
Don’t talk to me about it; my city has lost two professional franchises now.

Josh:
Really? The Pilots were a professional franchise?

Kevin:
Well, sort of.

That fateful day of reckoning came to the South Side. When the White Sox told their fans that beloved Comiskey Park, a jewel of the American League, could be expanded, refurbished, and polished no longer, it was time to act. Its era had come and gone, they said, and as
painful as the idea was to all, a new Comiskey would have to be constructed, one that would accommodate the Sox and their fans in the twenty-first century. Most White Sox faithful accepted the painful truth with the optimism and forward-thinking vision that has made Chicago one of the greatest cities in the world. And after all, this was to be a new and improved Comiskey: one that would bear the old-school look of its predecessor along with the conveniences of modernization.

Josh:
That makes it sound pretty good.

Kevin:
It’s called clever marketing.

Josh:
I wish we could get someone to spin our book as well as that.

Before the two World Series wins in their four-game sweep of the Houston Astros in 2005, which we’ll discuss in further detail shortly, one of the sweetest moments early in The Cell’s history came on Opening Day 1993, when Bo Jackson, coming off hip-replacement surgery, crushed the first pitch he saw into the right-field bleachers. Jackson had previously dedicated the game to his mother, who had recently passed away. The Sox went on to win the American League West that year, their first divisional title in ten seasons. The next year, Chicago led Cleveland by a single game in the AL Central standings when the strike ended its playoff hopes. In 1997 interleague play began and the new Comiskey hosted the Sox and Cubs for the first regular season “L Series,” so named for the “el”-evated rail that connects the two ballparks, and oh, yeah, the rest of the city as well. The Cubs nabbed the opener 8–3, but the Sox won the final two games to claim bragging rights to the city.

This is a city rich in tradition and mindful of its history. And for that reason the initial stab at the new South Side ballpark—which most rated as subpar—was tough for locals to stomach. White Sox history and Chicago history are deeply intertwined. The American League was formed in Chicago in 1899, then officially in 1901 when the Junior Circuit expanded to a 140-game schedule and declared itself a second Major League. In 1900 Charles Comiskey had bought the St. Paul Saints and moved them to the South Side Grounds at 39th and Princeton, where they played their games in a small wooden stadium and captured the pennant by defeating the Cleveland Blues. This park, which doubled as home of the American Giants, Chicago’s Negro League team, was torn down in 1940 to make way for housing projects. The White Stockings kicked off the 1901 season by playing the first “official” game of the new American League, winning again against Cleveland 8–2. They went on to win the pennant that inaugural season. Nixey Callahan tossed Chicago’s first no-hitter against the Detroit Tigers on September 20, 1902. On October 14, 1906, the Sox won the only “All-Chicago” World Series, downing the Cubs in six games.

A green cornerstone for a new White Sox park was laid at 35th and Shields Avenue on Saint Patrick’s Day in 1910, thanks in no small part to the Irish who lived in the South Side neighborhood of Bridgeport. White Sox Park opened its “palatial” gates just three-and-a-half months later on July 1, 1910. It didn’t take long for the new park to become known as “Comiskey.” And it wasn’t just owner’s pride from which the park drew its name. Mr. Comiskey had financed the entire structure and helped in its design, along with architect Zachary Taylor Davis and pitcher Ed Walsh. Perhaps the fact that a pitcher had a hand in the layout explains why the field was 362 feet down each foul line and 420 to straightaway center. The Sox lost 2–0 to the St. Louis Browns in their Comiskey debut on July 1, 1910.

The fans who turned out at old Comiskey witnessed the rise and fall of a sweet-swinging hick named Joe Jackson. “Shoeless” Joe signed his name with an X and sometimes shagged balls barefooted, just like he used to growing up in South Carolina. But he could sure punish a baseball. In 1915 he joined the White Sox via Cleveland, signing a contract for $31,000 a year—huge money in those days. Two years later, the Sox picked up their second World Series title, downing the New York Giants four games to two.

Tragedy struck a few years later when eight White Sox were suspended by Comiskey for allegedly conspiring to fix the 1919 World Series, which Chicago had lost to the Cincinnati Reds five games to three. The players were later found not guilty in the “Black Sox” trial, which nonetheless stained the reputation of the National Pastime and shook the confidence of American values to their very core. Despite the verdict, after the 1920 season Baseball Commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis banned all eight players from baseball for life, including Shoeless Joe, though his numbers in the Series were outstanding. The debate over his guilt or innocence carries forth to this day, and the scandal is well documented in the movie
Eight Men Out,
directed by John Sayles. In any case, it was the Steroid Scandal of its day, being likely far more insidious than ever came forth in the press, and a moment of crisis for the game that shook fan confidence for a generation.