Cubs LF Alfonso Soriano (2-14, 5 SO’s) sits glumly in the dugout following the North Sider’s 5-1 loss eliminating them from the playoffs – until next year, of course.

Well what the hell did you expect? They’re the Cubs fer crissakes!

The Chicago Cubs once again lived down to all expectations, getting swept by the Arizona Diamondbacks in the Division Championship Series 3-0 while establishing new records for post season futility. The Cubbies lost to AZ 5-1 last night, demonstrating that you can indeed play baseball while sleepwalking – a novel strategy employed by manager Lou Pinnella in lieu of actually sending a team onto the field that would resemble a Major League ballclub.

Of course, every time the Cubs lose a series in the post season, it’s a new record. This is the advantage of being in sole possession of the old record, and the one before that, and before that, and before that…

Obviously preferring nice round numbers, the Cubs will enter next season boasting an even 100 years of failure. One wonders if the North Siders will ever tire of such spectacular ineptness given that their fans may be starting to get a little antsy. A chorus of boos rained down on Wrigley Field when the last out was made in the game last night – an almost unheard of occurrence at this shrine to mediocrity. In the past, Cubs fans would have simply shrugged their shoulders and walked out of the ballpark dreaming of next year.

But it could be that Cub boosters are tired of the jokes, tired of the razzing, and tired of the fact that one of the biggest media conglomerates on the planet – the Tribune Company – can’t buy, beg, or steal the players and organization necessary to bring a championship ballclub to the North Side.

Perhaps realizing the 100 year honeymoon is over, the Trib is trying to sell the team. Maybe the new owners will figure out that even the masochistic Cub fans have had enough and will settle for nothing except an end to their agony.

As for this latest collapse, the Cubbies played three games in which Houdini would have been proud. They were, for all practical purposes, invisible. Five runs scored in three games with their top three hitters – Soriano, Lee, and Ramirez – going a combined 6-38 with zero runs batted in. Ramirez was especially awful going 0-12 with 5 strikeouts. Throwing out the ceremonial first ball, Ernie Banks at age 76 could probably have done better. The rest of them were equally awful, as the Cubbies hit .194 as a team.

I would say to my friends who are Cubs fans, look on the bright side; at least the team didn’t tease you with visions of victory this time around. They were never in the series to begin with. This time out, there were no crazy plays or costly errors to ruin your off season. The Cubs lost the old fashioned way; they stunk up the joint.

And so, another season ends on the North Side without a championship. But even the most diehard of Cubs fans have got to start questioning their sanity much less their allegiance to this team. The Cubs are beyond curses, beyond bad luck and have entered the realm of physics where the random interactions of atomic particles at the subatomic level is the only explanation for their continued failure. Amidst the scurrying of muons and gluons and quarks, there must be some as yet unamed particle (the cubuon?) that flits about, destroying the order of the universe and prevents the Cubs from winning a World Series.

Or maybe they need another right handed power hitter…

KEYS TO GLORY: CUBS MANAGER LOU PINNELLA AND LEFT FIELDER ALFONSO SORIANO

This article originally appears in The American Thinker

It’s October in Chicago. The days grow shorter, the weather gets cooler, and the long, sad slide toward a dark, despairing winter has begun. There are few things more melancholy in life than watching this transition from summer to fall. And the older I get, the more depressing it becomes. The all too short summer with its life giving warmth, nature exploding with color and marvelous variety, recedes into the burnt umbers and slate grays of autumn while a blanket of bone chilling cold begins to descend upon the land.

Pre-history humans in Europe didn’t like this seasonal transition any more than we did. They were fearful of nature’s forces, wondering if the warmth and heat would ever return to brighten the land and make their crops grow. To make sure that it did, they would sacrifice animals, food, even the occasional captive virgin no doubt. Obviously, such superstitious nonsense was unnecessary, a futile attempt to affect and understand what they couldn’t possibly comprehend. But it made them feel better, didn’t it?

In a similar vein, fans of the Chicago Cubs have no clue of the massive historical forces at work to hand them a World Series Championship in 2007. Like the ancients, North Side rooters are largely oblivious to how the natural world functions in any real sense. They are ignorant of the ebb and flow of time and circumstance, never living in the here and now, sacrificing the reality of today for what might be in the future if they could only “wait until next year.”

All they know is that 99 next years have come and gone and the flag flying over Wrigley Field denoting a World Series winner has failed to make an appearance. It is the most spectacular record of futility in American history, surpassing anything and everything that could possibly be compared to it, no matter how distantly. Fiction writers couldn’t create such a wretched record of sheer awfulness. Musicians could never compose an ode to capture such ineptness. Dramatists couldn’t write a three act melodrama that would glean the essence of failure and tragedy so perfectly.

In short, for almost an entire century, the Chicago Cubs have been losers – lovable to their fans but incomprehensibly awful to the rest of humanity.

To give you an idea of how truly atrocious this record of shameful failure stacks up, the next closest championship drought in professional sports is a tie between the Arizona Cardinals who haven’t won a championship since 1948 when they were the Chicago Cardinals and the Cleveland Indians whose last World Series title was the same year. That’s a 40 year gap between the haplessness of the Cubs and their next closest competitors in the hopelessness derby.

And it isn’t only the fact that the Cubs haven’t been champions for so long that makes this franchise such tragic/comic happenstance of history. Simply put, no other sports team has played as badly, lost as consistently, or been as uncompetitive over such long stretches of time as the Chicago National League ballclub. After appearing in 13 World Series by winning the NL Pennant from 1876-1932, they have appeared in exactly 3 Fall Classics since then – none since 1945.

But to get an idea of the true nature of the Cub’s monumental inadequacy, you need to look at the past 50 years or so in order to understand how really appalling this team has been.

From 1947 to 1966 – 20 full Major League seasons – the Cubs had exactly two seasons where they finished above the break even mark for the year. Most of those years, they lost 90 of 162 games. Several campaigns saw the team lose over 100 games. They were a living, breathing joke of a baseball team with some of the most forgettable players in Major League history. And if the team managed by pure, dumb luck to latch on to a prospect who had potential, they somehow managed to trade him away to star for some other team, getting even more forgettable players in return.

It was uncanny. The Cubs found more inventive ways to lose ballgames than the rulebook allowed. Bonehead plays, crucial errors in the field, base running mistakes, decidedly un-clutch hitting, bad bounces, balls lost in the sun, windblown home runs – all contributed at one time or another over that putrid stretch of years to make the Cubs the laughingstock of baseball.

Then came the magical year of 1969. The Cubs won on opening day by coming back and winning the game in their last at bat with a pinch-hit homerun. And the sorcery conjured up by manager Leo “The Lip” Durocher that year continued to supply thrills to the long suffering fans who packed Wrigley Field on a daily basis to watch their heroes. Going into August, the Cubbies had what appeared to be an insurmountable 8 1/2 game lead in the National League East and appeared to be headed toward glory.

But alas, it was not to be. In what is still considered one of the most shocking collapses in baseball history, the Cubs went on to lose 17 of 25 games in September and handed the pennant to the Mets.

From 1970-1983 the Cubs suffered several similar implosions, albeit the meltdowns occurred earlier in the season. In what would become known as “The June Swoon,” Cubs teams would be competitive for most of the first half of the season several times during that stretch only to melt like a stick of butter at a midsummer Grant Park picnic and end up with a losing record for the season. This skein of seasons became known “The Dark Years” – as opposed to what I would suppose to be “The Black Hole Years” describing the previous 40 seasons or so of team history. During this run of frightful futility, the Chicagoans finished a combined 165 games under the break even mark.

But the picture brightened after that era with the Cubs appearing in the playoffs 5 times since 1984. Unfortunately, the team’s inventiveness in snatching defeat from the jaws of victory became, if anything, more pronounced. Twice the Cubs came within a hair of advancing to the World Series only to have the impossible happen to deny them.

In 1984, the team won the first two games of the five game playoff with San Diego and was one win away from going to the World Series. But they lost the next two games in hearbreaking fashion and then, leading 3-0 in the 6th inning of the deciding game with their best pitcher Rick Sutcliffe on the mound, the dream vanished in the space between the dirt infield in San Diego and first baseman Leon Durham’s glove when the usually reliable fielder allowed a ground ball to scoot right under his mitt for an error that opened the floodgates to tragedy and loss.

It was worse in 2003. Once again, the Cubbies stood on the brink of going to the World Series, up 3 games to 1 in the seven game League Championship Series. Once again they held a lead in a deciding ballgame late. And once again, they broke the heart of their long suffering fans by blowing the lead, the game, and eventually the series. The details are still too painful to write about. You can read about it here.

And now here we are again in 2007 with history calling and the Cubs poised to enter the post season against Arizona. Cubs fans are already having a heart attack because there will be no over the air TV broadcast of the game. Contractual roadblocks involving the cable network TBS will prevent approximately 500,000 Chicagoans who don’t have cable TV from watching the game at home. Not only that, but the games will not be starting in the Windy City until 9:00 PM Central which has parents up in arms what with school the day after the games. Employers and school officials should expect many bleary eyed adults and children tomorrow and Friday mornings as sleep becomes secondary to the fans once again allowing themselves to become willing witnesses to what many experts are saying will be more tragedy.

But if the last 99 years have shown anything, it is that fans of the Chicago Cubs are the most emotionally resilient, the most annoyingly optimistic bunch in America. And with the sheer law of averages on their side, anything is possible before Summer becomes a distant memory and the long Midwestern Winter settles in, making us pine for spring when the crack of the bat and the shouts of joy on the ballfield hearkens the faithful to another season of Cubs baseball.

They began to gather in the parking lot across from US Cellular Field almost as soon as the last out was recorded. The young, the old, the black, the white, the brown, – Chicagoans of every size, shape and color streamed toward the site as if on a pilgrimage to Lourdes.

They came despite a cold, steady, soaking rain that seemed a metaphor for the entire event as 88 years of absolute and utter baseball futility was washed away by a tide of powerful emotions, sweeping through the city like rampaging flood waters hell bent on destroying all the fruitless years of dashed hopes, bitterness, and betrayal.

The Chicago White Sox are World Series champions.

The significance was not lost on some of us who recall that the parking lot gathering place was in fact the site of old Comiskey Park , torn down more than a decade ago to make room for the new ball yard but still a sacred site for White Sox fans whose allegiance extends back through the decades. The ghosts of Luke Appling, Chico Carrasquel, Shoeless Joe, Eddie Collins, and the rest can be at peace now. Their futility has been redeemed by the most remarkable team in the history of Chicago baseball. More remarkable than the 1969 Cubs team whose historic collapse in September allowed the “Miracle Mets” to make their own mark on the history books.

That team epitomized Chicago baseball; lovable losers. With the most beloved players in Chicago baseball history, including Billy Williams, Ron Santo, Don Kessinger, and the irrepressible Ernie Banks, the ‘69 Cubs team first confounded, then captured, and finally broke the hearts of Chicagoans by allowing a 9 1/2 game lead over the Mets on August 14 to dribble away to nothing until, in a final ignominious coda to that frustrating season, saw both the Mets and the St. Louis Cardinals pass them in September.

What does it say about a city that celebrated such utter failure? When toting up success in baseball, Chicagoans have always considered “the near miss” as good as winning. After all, when losing is the norm, people will go to great lengths to create the illusion of success. It gives meaning and purpose to life if, when waiting ‘till next year, you can spend that period between disappointment and hope fooling yourself into believing that there is a relationship between coming close one year and actually capturing the brass ring the next.

But baseball is a game designed to break your heart. The 1970 Cubs never even sniffed first place and finished far off the pace.

For the White Sox – the second team in the second city – no such nonsense was vouchsafed by its tough, working class fan base. The Cubs would still pack the “friendly confines” of Wrigley Field even if the Northsiders were the laughingstock of the league – as they usually were. Sox fans were much more discriminating and as a result, intolerant of losers. In fact, the teams were so bad at the end of the 1970’s and the falloff of fan support so precipitous, that serious consideration was given to the idea of moving the team to Florida. Only the last minute intervention by the a group headed up by current owner Jerry Reinsdorf kept the team in Chicago.

Now Reinsdorf and his club are world champions. And they did it last night by playing the kind of old-fashioned baseball that has had an enormous appeal to the cynical but hugely knowledgeable working class fans that have formed the basis of the team’s support since they came into being at the turn of the last century.

Casual fans of the game probably found last night’s 1-0 White Sox victory a bore. But for the purist, there is no more sublime example of the way the game should be played. Baseball is the only game where the defense has the ball which is why great pitching can overcome a multitude of sins and win championships. And last night’s pitchers, Garcia for the Sox and Backe for the Astros, proved the adage that the other team can’t win if they can’t score.

The tension engendered by a 0-0 baseball game is the most deliciously drawn out feeling in sports. As the game progresses, each pitch carries a significance far beyond the normal until by the late innings, one is sitting on the edge of their seat in unbearable anticipation of either uplifting triumph or devastating disaster. And by the eighth inning last night, both pitchers had the fans wrung out like a wet wash rag, whipsawed with emotion as every baserunner represented either victory or defeat.

The Astros buckled under the stress as they appeared to do throughout the last two games. After pitching seven brilliant innings, manager Ozzie Guillen lifted White Sox starter Freddie Garcia for a pinch hitter in the top of the eighth. Willie Harris then became the latest in a long line of unlikely White Sox heroes when, pinch hitting for Garcia, he singled sharply to left. Bunted to second by Scott Podsednik and sent to third on a ground out by Carl Everett, it was left to series MVP Jermaine Dye to single Harris home for the only run of the game.

Houston threatened to score in the eighth, but the threat was snuffed out on a nifty defensive play by shortstop Juan Uribe. Then in the ninth, following a broken bat single to center by Jason Lane and a sacrifice bunt, Uribe made two stellar plays to save the game. First, he literally dove into the fifth row of the stands along the left field line to catch a foul pop up off the bat of Chris Burke. And then, with the tying run on third base, pinch hitter Orlando Palmeiro topped a ball into the rock hard dirt in front of home plate causing the ball to bound high in the air and just over the glove of pitcher Bobby Jenks. As the ball landed 10 feet behind the pitcher’s mound, it looked like a sure infield hit to tie the score. But Uribe, streaking in from his shortstop position gloved the ball and in a blur of motion fired it with all his might to first to nip Palmeiro by half a step.

A fitting end to a marvelous game and stellar season for the Southsiders.

The victory was also something of a bittersweet moment for many of us whose first thoughts were for parents and grandparents who had already passed on and were unable to share the joy and fulfillment of a World Series triumph. Chicago baseball fans have become inured to the idea that such miracles will not occur in their lifetimes. So to see the dancing, celebrating players on the field brought a flood of memories of my own parents and grandparents who had handed down a love of the game and of the White Sox to many of their offspring. I’m quite sure that my father’s stoicism would have melted and a huge grin would have creased his face after that last out was recorded. And my other relatives who were as proud of the allegiance to the Sox as they were of their Irish heritage would have seen the victory as an occasion to celebrate. I’m quite sure the telephone wires would have been hot with calls between all of us as we each, in our own way, shared a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

But even those bittersweet thoughts will not dampen the enthusiasm for those of us whose loyalties lie with the baseball club from the Southside of Chicago. Perhaps in the spring when the mulberries are flowering and the dogwoods are blooming, I’ll pay a visit to some of their gravesides to tell them about it. After all, one thing that a long losing streak does is connect generations to a common goal; winning out in the end. And perhaps that’s the real lesson to be drawn from the team’s triumph.

Good things come to those who wait.

UTILITY MAN GEOFF BLUM GOLFS A HOME RUN IN HIS FIRST WORLD SERIES AT BAT DURING THE 14TH INNING OF LAST NIGHT’S 7-5 WHITE SOX VICTORY

Chicago awoke this morning bleary-eyed and feeling a touch hung over. It was as if most of the city had spent a restless night tossing and turning with no amount of sheep counting or log sawing any help in bringing about the peaceful, blissful sleep that so many desired but were, for some reason, denied.

If one had taken a ride on the city’s “L” train system this morning, an observant stranger might have noticed something a little odd; many more people than normal with tall, steaming cups of hot coffee, their eyes bloodshot and big, black circles under the sockets which gave the impression that most of the city was wearing a mask.

And every once in a while, people would look at each other, recognize the symptoms , and despite being tired to the very marrow the their bones would exchange knowing smiles:

“Go Sox.”

“Yeah…one more will do it.”

“Didja see that game?”

To the detriment of the city’s productivity for the day, many did indeed see the game. And when Mark Buerhle induced Houston’s Adam Everett to pop out to short and give the Sox an exhausting, 14 inning marathon 7-5 victory the time was nearly 1:25 AM. For the briefest of moments, it was almost as if White Sox fans who were watching the game weren’t quite sure whether they were truly awake or if they were in that delicious pre-wakeful state where the marvelous dream you were having tickles the conscious mind with the possibility that perhaps, it is not a dream after all; perhaps…just perhaps you really can fly or you are a Hollywood star or that gorgeous woman really is laying in bed next to you.

So you pinch yourself awake and the dream disappears, dissipating into the ether like the smoke that used to blow from the foundries and furnaces that nurtured this city in fire and sweat for a hundred years. Tough work for tough people, that. The people who gave the town its moniker “The City that Works” knew full well that the irony inherent in that slogan was that it was the many who did the working while the few did the crowing. Whether spending all day in the slaughterhouses amidst the unspeakable carnage of animal sinew and flesh to feed the nation or toiling on the night shift at the mill, death and injury wearing a thousand different faces and the cinders from the white-hot molten steel scarring the faces and hands and melding flesh to metal until the workers became one with their work.

These were the typical White Sox fans the last time the team was one victory away from a World Series Championship. In the autumn of 1917 as American doughboys rolled up the Kaiser’s best troops in France and Germany’s General Von Luddendorf slipped into defeatism and despair as the fresh faced Americans from farms and factories attacked his troops with a terrifying resolve and optimism, another White Sox team stood where today’s team now proudly stands; a single stride from destiny.

Back then, the hard working men who followed the fortunes of their Southside baseball club didn’t see baseball as an innocent diversion, a nice way to pass one’s leisure time. For when you work 10-12 hours a day, six days a week, “leisure time” takes on a whole new meaning. Going to the ball game was an occasion. Carefully dressing in your best clothes and taking the wife and kids to the ballpark was a large part of the working class world. Immigrants who barely understood English knew how many RBI’s Eddie Collins had and Shoeless Joe Jackson’s batting average. They knew that Ed Cicotte could wiz a fastball by any hitter in the league. And they could appreciate the smooth fielding and timely hitting of shortstop Buck Weaver.

It was a colorful crowd, swearing at umpires in a dozen different languages while eating picnic lunches featuring food from every ethnic group imaginable. And there was drinking and gambling too. People would bring their own buckets of beer to the park and quaff away as the gamblers and the shysters circled around them like vultures. Baseball had seen the odd gambling scandal every now and again and there were always rumors floating around about this or that player being “on the take.” For most, however, gambling was as much a part of baseball as the infield fly rule.

That year of 1917 saw the White Sox cruise through American League competition and win the World Series in six games over the New York Giants. Two years later, Cicotte, Weaver, and Shoeless Joe along with 5 other players took money to throw the 1919 series against Cincinnati. For the working class fans of the ballclub it was a betrayal of monstrous proportions, akin to finding out that not only is there no Santa Claus, but that Christmas was a fraud. In many ways not understood by most outsiders, the city never, ever forgave the team for that treachery. In fact, to this day, rooting for the Cubs is a form of payback for the thrown series, a way to stick it to the Soutsiders who so treasonously played with the loyalty and love of the fans.

All of that may be about to change. With the White Sox poised to take the title, the city seems ready to finally and forever forgive the team their sordid deed. Given how much ink has been spilled over the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, it may also once and for all put to rest the issue of the thrown series with the national sports media.

Any way White Sox fans look at it, something wonderful is about to happen. It’s going to be one of those rare times in one’s life when pinching yourself awake doesn’t help. The reason being, the dream is reality.

WHITE SOX RIGHT FIELDER JERMAINE DYE TURNS AWAY FROM A PITCH BY ASTROS RELIEVER DAN WHEELER. THE BALL GLANCED OFF DYE’S BAT BUT THE UMPIRE RULED IT HIT THE SOX BATTER AND AWARDED HIM FIRST LOADING THE BASES FOR PAUL KONERKO WHOSE GRAND SLAM HOMER GAVE THE SOX A TEMPORARY TWO RUN LEAD IN THE 7TH INNING

Once every year when the dogwoods bloom and the snows on the Holy Mound of Mounds have melted to reveal the Sacred Slab, the Gods of Baseball wake from their winter slumber and gather to decide which team will win the World Series.

These past couple of years, the Gods have been busy. Or drunk. If so, they’ve been doin’ some thinkin’drinkin’ because the turn of the New Millennium has seen some of the most unlikely World Series Champs imaginable.

Starting in 2000 with the first “subway series” in more than a generation, the hated Yankees defeated the nearly-as-hated Mets in a battle of teams who believe that New York is the center of the universe. The Gods witnessed this hubris and were mightily displeased, cursing the Mets by making them acquire high-priced free agents that turned into busts like Carlos Beltran and hexing the Yankees and their fans by allowing them to make it to the World Series twice in the next four years only to be buried by inferior National League teams.

One of those teams, the Arizona Diamondbacks defeated the 2001 Yanks in seven games on a broken bat line drive single by Luis Gonzalez the wasn’t hit hard enough to make a dent in the outfield grass. The D’Backs had two of the best pitchers of this or any other generation in Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling and not much else which only goes to prove that when the Gods are on your side, nothing else much matters.

The same could be said for the 2002 Champs, the Anaheim-LA Angles who still can’t make up their minds about what to call the team after 30 years but who have something the White Sox don’t have – a recent World Series title. The Gods, being the mischief makers they are, have since sentenced the Angels to the illusion that they can win another World Series without David Eckstein.

More heavenly tomfoolery in 2003 occurred when the Florida Marlins won their second World Series title in less than 10 years by defeating those Yanks. This gives the Marlins exactly the same number of World Series Championships as the Cubs, the difference being the Marlins have been in the league only since 1993 while the Cubs have been playing baseball in Chicago almost since Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over the lamp in the barn that started the Chicago Fire. The Gods love Florida because they like to vacation in Palm Springs during the winter where they sit by the pool and drink Cuba Libres and then play shuffleboard with the old folks in the afternoon. (They disguise themselves as tourists from Rio).

No such favoritism was shown the Boston Red Sox by the Baseball Deities for the longest time. It seems that when the God’s only begotten son, the great Babe Ruth, was sent down to show the locals what the game was really all about, he was badly mistreated by the then owner of the Bosox Henry Frazee. The Babe, one of the greatest pitchers in the history of baseball, was sold to the Yankees in 1919 for the sum of $100,000 and a loan for $350,000. To understand what an unbelievable amount of money that was at the time, President Wilson was pulling down $25,000 a year while trying to embroil the United States in the grubby power politics of Europe following World War I. For that, Mr. Wilson was soundly chastised by the Senate who refused to ratify US entry into an even more hopelessly idealistic and corrupt organization than the United Nations – the so-called League of Nations. Not quite as wholesome as the American and National Leagues plus they had players who couldn’t hit straight fast balls to save their lives but were very adept at throwing curves.

Frazee wanted the money to finance Broadway shows. The people of New York showed their gratitude for giving them the greatest baseball player in history in their usual effusive manner; they refused to attend any of the shows he so lavishly produced thus causing his bankruptcy, early retirement and death at the age of 48 in 1929.

Those whom the Gods destroy, they first make into laughingstocks.

But something happened when the Gods met on The Holy Mound of Mounds last year before the 2004 season. They apparently decided that enough was enough as far as the Red Sox were concerned and lifted the curse that had plagued the club since 1919. Besides, they saw ratings for their fair game falling like a stone and, having just added the God of Marketing to their little club, felt that it was good for the game to have a heart-tugging storyline that featured 90-something seniors weeping like infants when the Red Sox finally triumphed. And the nice touch of absolutely destroying Yankee fans by allowing the Pinstripers to go up 3 games to none in the LCS only to see the Carmines come back and take the series by winning 4 straight must have been enormously satisfying to the God of Records. He not only hates the Yankees for having so many of his precious “bests” and “firsts” and “mosts” but also because of the attention paid to New York sports franchises by the national media, especially the god-like network ESPN (Eastcoast Sports Please Network).

But the Gods had a problem going into 2005. How do you top 2004? They not only decided to tap the God of Destiny on the shoulder and send him to sit in the Chicago White Sox dugout all year long, it appears that they also decided to finally reveal themselves to unbelievers by causing a rash of events in the playoffs where divine intervention would be the only way to explain the simple, dumb, luck experienced by the formerly hapless Pale Hose.

The most recent revelatory episode occurred in last night’s 7-6 White Sox victory. With the Chisox trailing 4-2 in the bottom of the seventh inning, men on first and second, two out, and Jermaine Dye at the plate, a sudden gust of wind blew dirt in the home umpire’s ears and allowed a foul ball tipping off the bat of the White Sox right fielder to make the exact same sound as a ball hitting human flesh. The fact that the two sounds share absolutely no similarities means that the only possible explanation for the umpire’s error was divine intervention.

What happened next was to be expected, given how the baseball deities have taken such an active interest in helping the Chisox this fall. Paul Konerko sent the first pitch from brand new pitcher Chad Qualls on a line into the seats in left for a Grand Slam homer.

The fact is, you can talk all you want to about the bad calls and lucky breaks of the Sox this playoff year. But those events would be simple footnotes in history without the Sox taking advantage of them and making the best of them. Also, beware if you utter such nonsense and you live in a town with a professional baseball franchise. The Gods are listening and will brook no opposition to their decisions.

That said, the rest of the game was far from predictable. Phenom Bobby Jenks appeared to be human after all when he gave up two runs in the ninth and allowed the Astros to tie the score. Jenks suffered from a low strike zone being called by home plate umpire Jeff Nelson. To be effective, Jenks needs to throw high strikes. Otherwise, Major League hitters have little problem getting to his fastball especially when it’s below the belt. When batters can use gravity as an assist in speeding up their bats, power pitchers are in trouble.

The Gods had one more shock in store for fans when they gave Sox left fielder Scott Podsednik temporary rights to Babe Ruth’s ability. Pods slammed a ball into the right field seats to win the game and send the Sox to Houston with a 2-0 series lead.

All the signs point to a White Sox series win in Houston. But perhaps the Gods will take pity on the Astros and give them a couple of wins in front of their long suffering fans. With two of the classiest players in the game – Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell – the Astros deserve to shine a little before their own folks.

But judging by how the playoffs have been going for the White Sox, it appears that the Gods of Baseball are already starting to think about how they can top 2005 next year. Perhaps they’ll turn to the North Side of town…

Not a chance.

24 YEAR OLD BOBBY JENKS FINISHES A GAME FOR THE WHITE SOX THAT FEATURED HOUSTON STARTER 43 YEAR OLD ROGER CLEMENS

It’s pretty hard to refer to White Sox closer Bobby Jenks as a “kid.” After all, the man is 24 years old and been making a living throwing his 100 MPH fastball for more than 5 years. On the other hand, one look at the roundly cherubic face and the 270 pound body with what appears to be some adolescent “baby fat” on it and one could be excused the exaggeration.

But perhaps because the game of baseball contains more than its fair share of fabulists and myth makers, the appellation “The Kid” evokes a powerful subtext to any story. “Youth will be served” in both sport and life. And nowhere was this theme explored any better than in the short story by Jack London entitled A Piece of Steak.

Published in the Saturday Evening Post in 1909, the story is about an aging boxer who wakes up on the day of what he knows will be his last fight hankering for a piece of steak. But there is no money for meat. The promoter has advanced him the loser’s purse just so he could pay the rent and what was left over was barely enough to purchase some bread and flour to make a weak, unsatisfying gravy.

As he readies himself for the fight, the boxer reminisces about his youth and how he used to eat steak three times a day when he was a winning fighter. Back then, people gladly bought him steaks just so they could sit with him and bask in his celebrity. But no more. Now aging and tired, he realizes that in order to win and receive the balance of the money from the winners purse that will see him through until he can get a job, he must use all of his wiles, all of his wisdom and knowledge to defeat his opponent.

For his opponent is a young, up and coming fighter, a mirror image of who and what he was many years ago. In fact, his foe is youth itself for, as London brilliantly shows time and time again, “youth will be served.” And the aging fighter wonders if he can defeat not only his opponent, but life itself which has played such a horrible trick on him by making him grow old.

The youth has power and grace and an endurance that the old boxer realizes he doesn’t possess. Therefore, his strategy will be to conserve his strength, hoping that the young fighter will make a mistake and give him an opening. He will then unleash his remaining strength in a hail of blows that will knock out the youngster and give him the winner’s purse he so desperately needs.

The fight unfolds as a one sided affair with the youth predictably beating up on the older boxer. But the aging fighter knows how to deflect the young man’s blows just enough so that their power is reduced. He also has the guile and experience to slip away from blows that would have hammered him into the canvas. And then, with the young boxer way ahead on points, his overconfidence gets the better of him and he momentarily drops his guard.

This is what the aging fighter had been waiting for and he immediately tries to take advantage. He hurts the youth with several well aimed shots to the head and then begins to pound away at the body. He can feel victory in his grasp as the youth starts to sag. He can see that the young man is ready to drop. All he needs to do to knock the youngster out is deliver the final, coup de grace to the jaw.

As he rears back and readies himself to deliver the final blow, the aging boxer realizes to his horror that the strength just isn’t there. The blow lands but doesn’t have the power behind it to bring the young man down. Sadly, the old fighter believes that if only he had a piece of steak, the blow he delivered would have been powerful enough to bring him victory. As the young man holds on to the ancient boxer in the clinch, he can feel the strength returning to the younger man while his own diminishes.

And thus, is youth served in the end as the youngster knocks out the now tired and defeated older man.

London’s fable, one of the best short stories ever written, reveals the universal truth that the young lion will eventually defeat the old lion as the torch of life is passed to another generation. And while it is impossible to diminish the career of last night’s starter for Houston Roger Clemens, watching the 43 year old fireballer limp off the mound in the second inning last night immediately brought to mind London’s tale of bitterness and life’s betrayal of all of us as our physical abilities diminish just at the time that our experience and knowledge would allow us to dominate our world in a way that was impossible in our youth.

And stepping into the spotlight last night was that raw power of youth represented by Bobby Jenks. Now it is his fastball not Clemens’ that blows away hitters like the autumn leaves swirling around outside of US Cellular Field. It is the youngster that, with seeming ease, plowed through the last 4 batters for Houston by striking out three of them, hurling his Thor-like thunderbolts with terrifying speed and accuracy.

Jenks has what Clemens had twenty years ago; a fastball so overpowering and intimidating that hitters never were able to get comfortable in the batters box. The batter’s self-preservation instincts were on full when facing Clemens back then. Now, although still an outstanding pitcher who led the Major League starting pitchers in Earned Run Average (1.87 runs per nine innings), Clemens is much more apt to use his knowledge of hitters and his resourcefulness to get batters out.

No, there is no parallel between Roger Clemens and the aging boxer except in the fact that both are now old by athletic standards and that the skills and abilities they possessed as youths have been replaced by experience and guile. Clemens, like his fellow Texan Nolan Ryan, will always be remembered for both a stratospheric ability to throw a baseball and a longevity that defied the gods that allowed both to pitch well into their 40’s. Nothing Clemens does in this World Series will dim the luster off of a career full of record shattering accomplishment and marvelous athletic feats. But his fastball – once the scourge of the baseball world – is no longer the powerful weapon that allowed him to dominate batters in a way seen perhaps once in a generation.

And Bobby Jenks? Here’s how I described the “kid” from Spirit Lake, Idaho a couple of weeks ago:

He can throw a baseball more than 100 miles per hour. At that speed, the ball screams toward the hitter appearing to be a tiny, jet propelled pellet of white-hot molten plasma, a blur to the eye of even the best of Major League hitters and forcing them to begin their swing almost before the pitch leaves his hand. And his 12 to 6 curve ball thrown almost 20 miles per hour slower has made more than one Major League hitter look like a busher with cataracts.

But what Bobby Jenks has that makes him a potential star closer for the White Sox during the upcoming post season is the heart of a lion and the soul of a serial killer – two attributes that a successful baseball fireman must have in order to succeed when the game is on the line and the pressure so intense that equally gifted pitchers have buckled and broken.

Jenks showed last night that he indeed has “the heart of a lion.” And it is just possible to imagine that by the end of Game 1 of the World Series, the young lion established himself as leader of the pride while the old, tired male limped off into history realizing that yes, youth will always be served when it comes to athletic endeavors.

UPDATE

Although Crank picks the Chisox is 7 games, he has some rather interesting comments about the luck of the Sox in not having to face healthy #1 starters in both the Angels series (Colon) and now against the Astros (Clemens).

Nice try but doesn’t that statement ignore the White Sox starters? Is Crank saying that any of the games would have turned out differently? Is he saying that either a healthy Colon or Clemens would have shut out the White Sox?

This is the problem with playing “what if” games in baseball. It wouldn’t have mattered who pitched last night for the Astros unless they had scored more runs than the White Sox. In other words, unless you’re willing to say that the Sox would have scored 3 or fewer runs, the notion that a healthy Clemens would have beaten them is a fallacy. This is true especially because of the Astros bullpen which was horrid last night.

Ain’t baseball great?

PABLO OZUNA (38) IS WALKING ON AIR AS THE WHITE SOX CELEBRATE WINNING THE AMERICAN LEAGUE PENNANT FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1959

It was the bottom of the eighth inning of last night’s pennant clinching White Sox win when the camera found him, the oldest living member of baseball’s storied Hall of Fame. The Sox had gone ahead in the top of that inning thanks to another intervention conducted by the Gods of Baseball whose interest in this year’s Chicago southside baseballers rivals that of of a mother bear for her cubs (small “c”). But when millions of fans watched as the lens focused on 97 year old Al Lopez, I’m sure there was more than one old timer who gave in to the urge to allow a wave of nostalgia claim their emotions and shed a tear for all of the empty, fruitless years of living in Chicago and being a fan of the Chicago White Sox.

For you see, Al Lopez was the 50 year old manager of the 1959 “Go-Go” White Sox who captured the hearts of the city along with the American League pennant, the last time a Chicago baseball team represented the city in the World Series. Lopez also had the distinction of managing the 1954 Cleveland Indians team that won an astonishing 111 games in a 154 game schedule, a record not broken until the Yankees won 114 games in 1998.

He managed the Sox during a golden era in the history of the franchise. The nine year period between 1957-65, saw the White Sox finish 2nd five times in addition to the 1959 pennant. He had the utter misfortune of first, managing during an astounding run by the New York Yankees where, under their mercurial manager Casey Stengel, the Bronx Bombers represented the American League in the World Series no less than 13 times in the 15 year period encompassing 1949-64. Secondly, he managed before the advent of the playoff system so that despite tremendously successful 90+ win seasons (98 wins in 1964 finishing 2nd to the 99 wins of the Yanks), only the winners of the American League and National League races ended up in post-season play.

Lopez managed in what most people consider to be the apogee of baseball’s popularity in America. It was also an era of virtual slavery for Major League players who, thanks to the “reserve clause” in every player’s contract, were bound to their team as surely as a slave was to his owner. And while this was very bad for the players of that era, it was very good for baseball fans. Teams were remarkably stable personnel wise so that fans knew year to year who was on the team, even what the daily lineup was going to be.

For the Sox of that era there was the flashy Venezuelan shortstop Louis Aparicio who perennially led the league in stolen bases. Then there was the workmanlike #2 hitter Nellie Fox. A great second baseman, Fox was nevertheless remembered for the great, bulging chaw of tobacco in his cheek that inspired tens of thousands of Chicago area children to imitate with a half dozen or so pieces of “Joe Palooka” bubble gum. Happy-go-lucky Minnie Minosa was a sheer joy to watch play the game as his infectious enthusiasm and broad, toothy smile lit up even the black and white TV’s of that era. And Ted Kluszewski – “Big Klu” – whose upper arms were so massive, he had to cut the sleeves off his jersey just so that he could swing the bat properly. There was Roy Seivers, “Jungle” Jim Rivera, Sherman Lollar, Jim Landis, and Ed Torborg. Not a real power hitter among them – at least none who could compete with anyone on the hated Yankees.

For pitching, Lopez brought with him an aging star from Cleveland, a hard nosed no-nonsense southpaw named Early Wynn. It was thought that Wynn’s best years were behind him. But in that magical year of 1959, the 39 year old Wynn picked up 22 wins. Bob Shaw (18 wins) Billy Pierce (14 wins), and Dick Donovan (9 wins) rounded out a starting staff that helped the team to a 94 win season.

But it was Lopez himself who set the tone for the team. With a quiet confidence, he set the league on fire with a speed game not seen since the depression era. The team played at old Comiskey park, a roomy, pitcher-friendly park with a centerfield and power alleys in the outfield where home runs went to die. He loaded up the team with a line up of quality defensive players who were willing to play together and sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Playing what is called a “situational game,” – bunting, putting baserunners in motion, stealing – the White Sox of 1959 may have been something of a joke offensively, but their pitching and defense along with excellent clutch hitting allowed them to beat out the Indians for the title.

Their World Series appearance turned out to be anti-climactic as they lost in 6 games to the Los Angeles Dodgers in the first World Series played west of Missouri. But Chicago never forgot that team. And in the ensuing years as the Sox would come oh-so-close only to fade in the stretch or worse, the hated Yankees would catch fire and surpass them, both the young and the old could only look forward to the coming spring when hope would be reborn and the possibilities of the season were measured not in blooming flora and fauna but in whether or not the new kid called up from the minors could get the curve ball over for a strike.

Then came divisional play and for the first decade and a half, the Sox were shut out of the playoffs as the team’s fortunes plummeted along with the talent level of its once rightly respected farm teams. In a time when teams were spending tens of millions of dollars on talent at both the major and minor league level, Sox old-fashioned owner Bill Veeck tried to run the club on a shoestring. Finally, with the team in danger of being sold to a group in the Tampa-St.Petersburg area (now home of the Devil Rays), an ownership group headed up by real estate tycoon Jerry Reinsdorf bought the team and by 1983, had built a winner. The team that year made it into the playoffs, losing to eventual world champion Baltimore and their lights-out pitching staff.

In the next two decades, the White Sox were competitive but only managed two other playoff appearances. Neither team had much of a chance in the playoffs although the 1993 team competed well against eventual world champion Toronto.

The Bears won a Super Bowl in 1985. Then came the Bulls run of 6 championships in 8 years. Those championships won by the Reinsdorf-owned Bulls only whetted the appetite of the city for what the people really craved; a World Series winner.

Then came the hiring of the manic Venezuelan Ozzie Guillen and the oddly matched General Manager Ken Williams. Guillen was like a phosphorus grenade, ready to explode and burn at a moment’s notice while Williams was a pool of cool water, hardly a ripple visible to the public. Somehow, the two forged a prosperous relationship and built the current American League champs. How that relationship will play out when things get a little bumpier in the future may be entertaining to watch; something akin to a NASCAR race where many wait for the inevitable crash in turn #3.

For now however, all that counts is history and legends in the making. The White Sox have made believers out of the American League. But making converts of White Sox fans will take a little more work. After 46 years of disappointment, we can be excused if we tend to be a bit skeptical.

WHITE SOX CATCHER A.J. PIERZYNSKI SWINGS AND MISSES AT STRIKE THREE AND THE THIRD OUT OF THE NINTH INNING IN LAST NIGHT’S 2-1 WHITE SOX VICTORY…OR WAS IT?

Rule 6.05(b) in the Official Rules of Baseball state “A batter will be out if…A third strike is legally caught by the catcher; “Legally caught” means in the catcher’s glove before the ball touches the ground. It is not legal if the ball lodges in his clothing or paraphernalia; or if it touches the umpire and is caught by the catcher on the rebound. If a foul tip first strikes the catcher’s glove and then goes on through and is caught by both hands against his body or protector, before the ball touches the ground, it is a strike, and if third strike, batter is out. If smothered against his body or protector, it is a catch provided the ball struck the catcher’s glove or hand first.

And most importantly, in Rule 6.05 (j): After a third strike or after he hits a fair ball, he or first base is tagged before he touches first base;

I don’t know whether Angels catcher Josh Paul cleanly caught that third strike after A.J. Pierzynski swung and missed. That was never really the basis of the Angels argument. Rather, it was home plate umpire Doug Eddings clear and unmistakable hand signal that A.J. was out and that the inning was over that has both Angels players and fans in such an uproar.

Eddings raised his right arm and cocked his thumb in the traditional “out” signal that umpires make to indicate an out has been officially recorded. At that point, the Angels contend the inning was over, which is why they ran off the field. Angels classy manager Mike Scioscia explains:

“It was a swing; our catcher caught it,” Scioscia said. “Doug Eddings called him out and somewhere along the line, because the guy ran to first base, he altered the call and that’s disappointing.”

Mr. Scioscia has it exactly right: White Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski faked out the umpires and was able to make it stick as a result of stubbornness and tradition in the brotherhood of umpires.

As legendary umpire Nester Shylock once said “Umpires are expected to be perfect on opening day and improve as the season wears on.” Umps are under enormous pressure and this has bred a kind of insularity that has fostered a rock hard wall of solidarity with other umpires on their crew. Baseball managers are like little children seeking a parent’s permission for some adventure or other; if mommy says no maybe daddy will say yes. So they sometimes go from umpire to umpire seeking to overturn the obvious mistake of one of their brethren.

They may as well be talking to a baseball bat. It isn’t going to happen.

This is part of the tradition of the game, as much as the argument or “rhubarb” that takes place on the field as a result of such a poor decision.

The origin of the term “rhubarb” to describe a dust-up with umpires goes back to the 1940’s and is one of those fascinating little tidbits of info you can find on the web:

It may come from radio jargon. During early radio dramas, when the noise of an angry crowd was needed, actors in the studio would repeatedly utter the word rhubarb, which provided the appropriate effect. The hubbub and din of a radio crowd was somehow transferred over to the noise of a fight or argument. This use is documented as early as 1934.

The use in baseball dates to about 1943. Red Barber, the famed baseball broadcaster for the Brooklyn Dodgers, is often cited as the one who introduced the term to baseball, but while Barber is largely responsible for popularizing the term, he never claimed credit for originating it. Instead, Barber says he learned the term from fellow reporter Garry Schumacher, who got it from another sportswriter, Tom Meany, who learned it from an unnamed Brooklyn bartender. The bartender used it to describe a bar room altercation where a Brooklyn fan shot a Giants fan. (They used to take their baseball very seriously in New York.)

I thought that the Angels showed a lot of class by not making too much of the blown call. Scioscia even went so far as to say that his team didn’t play well enough to win anyway. That said, White Sox fans know damn well that they got a lucky break. And as is also tradition in baseball, look for the umpires to find a way to “even things out” when the series moves to California on Friday night.

Pierzynski’s deke of home plate umpire Eddings was the catalyst that propelled the White Sox to their series tying victory. But only after a game that witnessed some of the most beautiful pitching seen in any post season series in quite a while.

First, Jarold Washburn who two days ago was suffering from strep throat and running a fever of 105 degrees, gave a gutty effort. He pitched extremely well, understandably tiring in the 5th inning at which point he gave way to a succession of Angels relievers who stopped the White Sox cold.

On the other side, Sox hurler Mark Buehrle pitched one of his best games of the season as he shut down the Angels on 5 hits. His only mistake – a home run to reserve infielder Robb Quinlan. Quinlan’s blast knotted up the score at 1-1 in the fourth and there it stayed until the eventful 9th inning.

Something that should be extremely troubling to White Sox fans is the teams lack of execution on the base paths and the dearth of big hits with runners in scoring position. The former is probably a case of nerves and may get better away from home. After all, the Sox have the best road record in the major leagues. As for the latter, give the Angels pitching staff – especially their bullpen – a lot of the credit for choking off the White Sox offense. Last night, that bullpen was unhittable as they allowed only one hit prior to the 9th inning.

And in the ninth, Ozzie Guillen made his first really inspired move of the playoffs by sending in Pablo Ozuna to pinch run for Pierzynski following A.J.’s little deception. Ozuna, a true liability in the field but an excellent hitter and base runner, promptly stole second. And then big time clutch hitter Joe Crede came through with a shot over the head of left fielder Garret Anderson that scored Ozuna and ended the game.

The Sox should consider themselves extremely fortunate to be tied at this point in the series as they have not played well at all. They appear tentative at the plate and in the field and are trying to force things rather than have the game come to them. They have made 4 outs in two games on the basepaths. Aaron Rowand getting thrown out at home plate in the second inning last night with no outs was just plain stupid. And Crede’s double made up for his baserunning gaffe in the 6th inning where he was doubled off second after a liner to left. Coupled with the Sox not able to steal off Angels pitching and catching, getting thrown out twice in Game 1, and you have a recipe for defeat for the Sox.

Unless they can find a way to settle down and play their game, Sox fans may have seen the last their boys at home this year. The Angels are perfectly capable of sweeping the Sox in California which would end the series and the dreams of the Pale Hose to make it back to the Fall Classic for the first time since 1959.

The Los Angeles Angels pitcher Francisco Rodriguez celebrates his team’s 5-3 victory over the New York Yankees in Game 5 of the American League Division Series in Anaheim on Monday night

“Pitching, defense, and speed wins championships” is one of those baseball truisms that in recent years has been proven to be not so true. Last year’s champs, the Boston Red Sox, clubbed their way to a World Series victory over the Cardinals with sheer firepower – an offensive display of devastating proportions that bulldozed opponents with a dizzying succession of extra base hits and home runs.

But it looks like “small ball” is back in vogue this year – at least for the American League Championship Series. ALCS opponents Chicago and Los Angeles appear to be evenly matched in many respects but especially in the pitching, defense, and speed departments.

OFFENSE

While the White Sox finished fourth best in all of baseball in total team home runs, they are not considered a power-hitting team. However, if there is one significant edge to either team in this series, it is in the round tripper department as the Angels finished with more than 25% fewer dingers than the Chisox.

Both teams had virtually the same batting average, same number of extra base hits, and the same on-base percentage. Los Angeles had more walks and fewer strikeouts. The White Sox had more sacrifice bunts.

In the speed department, Los Angeles led the league in stolen bases while the White Sox finished up the season in third place and in a base stealing slump. One must give the SB advantage to LA both because the Sox are in a funk and because of the Angels catcher Benji Molina who has one of the best arms in the league. Couple that with the fact that Sox pitchers are uniformly slow to the plate and that Chisox backstop A.J. Pierzynski possesses only an adequate arm and you have the potential for a huge series-changing advantage for LA.

For the Sox to win, it may come down to keeping Chone Figgins, who led the league in steals, and some of the other LA speedsters off the bases as much as possible. If not, they may run rings around the White Sox.

PITCHING

As it stands right now, the White Sox have a huge advantage in starting pitching. With Bartolo Colon going down with a bad shoulder and Jarold Washburn sick with a strep throat, manager Mike Scioscia is in something of a pitching quandary. Both John Lackey and Colon pitched very well against the Sox this year while Washburn and Byrd were hit hard by Chicago. The wild card is the kid Ervin Santana who has brilliant stuff but probably won’t be able to pitch until game three in California. He blanked the Sox for his first major league victory back in July. Also, the LA pitchers may have to go on short rest for the first 2 games unless Washburn is ready on Wednesday.

On the other hand, with the White Sox sweep of the Red Sox came the luxury for manager Ozzie Guillen of being able to set his pitching staff up the way he wants to. Thus, second half phenom Jose Contreras will go in game one followed by Mark Buehrle and John Garland with Guillen having the option of pitching Contreras with three days rest on Saturday or going with Freddie Garcia.

The bullpens of the two clubs are eerily similar with excellent set up men and great closers. Even with the Angels pitching woes, they still have some great arms to throw at White Sox hitters.

INTANGIBLES

LA won the World Series in 2002 and knows what it takes to get there and win. The White Sox are hungry, confident, and perhaps even a little cocky.

But if the Sox thought there was pressure on a Division Series, it’s best they get it through their heads that the ALCS is a whole new experience as far as pressure is concerned. And that pressure will come in the first two games of the series to be played in Chicago. Given the horrendous record of the White Sox on the West Coast the last several years, both home games to open the series are almost “must win” situations. The Angels are perfectly capable of beating the White Sox three games in a row in their home park so a sweep at home for the Sox is almost a necessity.

PREDICTION

I believe the White Sox have a big advantage the first two games of the series what with LA’s pitching woes. And I see Chicago taking one of the three games played in LA next weekend.

Look for the White Sox to take the series in 6 games – all close, low scoring pitching duels with both pens performing brilliantly but long balls by the White Sox being the difference in the long run.

WHITE SOX PITCHER ORLANDO HERNANDEZ, AKA “EL DUQUE,” PUMPS HIS FIST IN TRIUMPH AFTER STRIKING OUT JOHNNY DAMON TO END THE 6TH INNING IN THE CHISOX 5-3 SERIES CLINCHING VICTORY OVER BOSTON

The box score and even most news reports that tell what happened in the bottom of the 6th inning of the Chicago White Sox series clinching 5-3 win against Boston give only the barest of bones about the gorgeous one-on-one struggles between White Sox pitcher Orlando Hernandez and the Bosox hitters. To flesh out what really happened and why, one must look deeper into the very soul of the game of baseball itself to discover the secret by-plays and timeless strategies of both hitters and pitchers to recognize why that sequence was so special both to baseball purists and the history of the game.

First, a little background. The White Sox had gone up 4-2 in the top of the inning thanks to a towering home run by slugger Paul Konerko, one of the few Chisox players not bewitched by Boston pitcher Tim Wakefield’s fluttering, sinking, diving and dancing knuckleball.

At times, Wakefield was damn near unhittable. The knuckleball is thrown in such a way as to negate any rotation on the ball thus not allowing the seams to cut through the air so that the ball flies straight and true toward its target. Instead, because the 60 feet six inches between the pitcher’s mound and home plate is full of currents and eddies of air, the knuckler floats like a paper airplane, diving and rising, swerving and dipping, even appearing to “flutter” up and down and back and forth until it finally arrives at home plate. The pitcher “controls” the pitch in only the grossest sense. And the poor catcher has a devil of a time trying to corral the ball.

But it’s the hitter you should be feeling sorry for. To be effective, the knuckler is usually thrown under 70 miles an hour. Given that most major league fastballs are in the 90 MPH range, the hitter is flummoxed not only by a baseball that changes direction three or four times before getting to him, but it also arrives at the plate traveling not much faster than a good little leaguers fastball. To the batter, what appears to be a slow ball coming at him as big as a pumpkin will, in the end, usually fall out of the strike zone making the batsman look silly as he swings at nothing but air.

This was Wakefield for most of the game. With the exception of a rough spot in the top of the third where the White Sox were able to string together two doubles and a single with two out for two runs, Wakefield had the Chicago hitters hogtied.

Then in the 6th, Jermaine Dye waited out Wakefield and wangled a walk. Konerko followed with his blast and that was it for the Boston pitcher. The White Sox managed to put a couple runners on, but 3 Red Sox pitchers finally got out of the inning.

That half inning lasted nearly 35 minutes which meant that White Sox pitcher Freddie Garcia had been sitting and stiffening up while his teammates were batting. The first hitter he faced in the bottom of the sixth was Manny Ramirez who promptly sent one of Freddie’s slider’s in the general direction of New Hampshire. The ball, in fact, may still be airborne as I write this. It was Ramirez second homer of the game, a titanic blast that proved why he is so much fun to watch hit even if he is on the other team. Almost as much fun to watch bat is David Ortiz who was responsible for the other Red Sox tally also via the homer.

That was it for Garcia who pitched adequately but walked 4 batters and gave up the aforementioned 3 home runs. He gave way to Damaso Marte who promptly got in trouble by giving up a single to Trot Nixon and then two successive walks to load the bases with no one out. One wonders if that is the first and only time Marte will make an appearance in the playoffs as the once unhittable pitcher has become a league punching bag.

Enter Orlando Hernandez. Last winter when the White Sox were looking for a 5th starting pitcher, General Manager Ken Williams wanted to get someone with extensive playoff experience. The fact that he got Hernandez was a stroke of genius as most baseball experts believed El Duque’s best days were behind him. The Cuban defector had a great record in the playoffs however and after a mediocre year as a starter, manager Ozzie Guillen decided to add the aging hurler to the playoff roster to give some seasoning to the young, inexperienced arms in his bullpen.

El Duque came out of the pen with his usual swagger. As St. Louis Cardinal Hall of Fame pitcher Dizzie Dean once said “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it,” and El Duque was going to need all of his guile, his talent, and a great deal of pluck to get out of this game altering situation.

After throwing his 8 warm-up tosses, into the batter’s box steps one of the great clutch hitters of the game, Red Sox Captain Jason Varitek. Varitek hadn’t shaved for about three days and he looked like the true throwback player that he his; a scowling, menacing, hulking presence at the plate. El Duque stared at him while Varitek went through his “routine” or the rigmarole that all batters have before they get set to hit. Varitek got ready, bat poised off his shoulder, his eyes intent on Hernandez. But El Duque just kept looking at him. Varitek, not wanting to give in to El Duque’s little stratagem of trying to freeze him, kept his eye on Hernandez, his bat very still while time itself slowed and the crowd grew a little quieter. But El Duque just continued to stare at Varitek intently. Finally, the scowling slugger gave in and called for time, stepping out of the batter’s box.

Round one to El Duque.

Immediately upon his return into the hitters area, Varitek needed to get ready because Hernandez was going into his stretch. This is a veteran pitcher’s trick to keep the hitter from getting too comfortable, too familiar at the plate – especially in game situations. El Duque then reared back and fired…his “ephus” pitch. Also called a “parachute” pitch, the ball actually travels in an arc to home plate like a slow-pitch softball delivery. Hernandez pitch wasn’t a true ephus pitch but it had the desired effect. Even though it fell over the plate several inches inside, Varitek’s eyes went wide and he started talking to himself.

Round Two to the pitcher.

Varitek never had much success in his career against Hernandez, getting only 3 hits in 29 at bats. Now that El Duque had him off balance, he quickly worked the count to 1 ball and two strikes. Hernandez then delivered the perfect pitch; a high fastball, slightly inside. It was too close for Varitek to take, hoping it would be a ball and he was forced to swing at it. The result was a weak pop-up in foul ground caught by White Sox first baseman Paul Konerko for the first big out of the inning.

Round three TKO to Hernandez.

Next up was the excellent clutch hitting Tony Graffanino who had the extra incentive to redeem himself following his unforced error at second base in Game 2. Graffanino is the consummate pro and took the first two offerings by Hernandez for balls. Being up 2 balls no strikes with the bases loaded and one out is almost an automatic “hit away” situation. The pitcher absolutely has to throw a strike. Hernandez delivered and Graffanino was right “on” the pitch – his timing was right – but he only got a piece of the ball and it went back to the screen for strike one.

The next pitch was a little trickier. It was one of El Duque’s specialties – a sweeping, swerving slider that Graffanino topped into the ground in foul territory for strike two. And then, the battle was really joined as Graffinino fouled off two Hernandez rising fastballs and then watched a slider dip low and away for ball three.

This put Graffinino in the drivers seat. El Duque just had to come to him with a strike. A walk would force in a run. No one knew this better than El Duque. But over the next four pitches – all fouled off by the tenacious Graffanino – Hernandez proved that it mattered where you throw a strike. His pitches were all barely off the plate – not a true strike among them. But Graffinino didn’t want to strike out either, so with a brilliant piece of hitting and plate coverage, he got a piece of each of El Duque’s offerings, hoping that Hernandez would make a slight error and he could get the meaty part of the bat on the ball and drive it to the outfield for at the very least a sacrifice fly that would tie the score.

Finally, after 10 nerve wracking pitches, Chisox catcher A.J. Pierzynski called time and went out to discuss the matter with Hernandez. After the game, El Duque said that he told A.J. he wanted to throw a slow curve to throw Graffanino off stride. From the looks of the conversation on the mound, A.J. was probably trying to talk Hernandez out of it. In the end, Hernandez ended up throwing a slow, spinning, get-me-over curve ball that badly fooled Graffanino who was still looking for the heat. Tony G swung and popped the ball weakly to shortstop Uribe.

Second set to El Duque.

That confrontation with Graffinino was almost too beautiful to watch. It was beyond classic. It reached down and grabbed the very essence of what baseball is – a team game that is almost totally dependent on a mano a mano confrontation between a pitcher and a hitter. High salaried, spoiled players can’t ruin it. Greedy owners can’t ruin it. Even inane announcers couldn’t ruin that moment.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Up steps one of the top five hitters in the game, Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon. Damon of the 197 regular season hits. Damon of the 75 RBI’s – an astronomical total for a leadoff hitter. Damon of the grimly determined bunch of Red Sox fatalists who never gave up and was one the heroes of the Red Sox magical run to the Championship in 2004.

More El Duque gamesmanship as he does a little mound cleaning just as Damon steps into the batters box. With his spikes, he carefully digs a little trench on the third base side of the pitcher’s rubber. His concentration on his mound maintenance is apparently total. A closeup of the pitcher however, shows a grim little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Following the game, Paul Konerko was asked what he thought of Hernandez. Konerko averred that El Duque had more heart than any player he had ever been around. Ozzie Guillen called Hernandez “cold blooded.” Either way, Hernandez would need all of his wits and wisdom to get past Johnny Damon and get out of the inning unscathed.

El Duque began to fire; Strike one fastball. Ball one fastball outside. Strike two on a fastball Damon couldn’t catch up to and fouled off to the left. Ball two on another fastball. Another foul on a slider. And a curve ball that broke off the plate inside took the count the 3 balls and 2 strikes once again. A rising fastball was fouled off again by Damon.

The crowd, a screaming, swaying, living , breathing thing was on its feet begging, imploring, trying to will the miracle all by themselves. The Red Sox nation never gives up. And if you didn’t get a chill listening to that crowd and watching the action and the by-play of that inning, you must be drinking formaldehyde ‘cause you’re not livin’ the way the rest of us are.

Another 3 and 2 pitch was in the offing and El Duque had a choice. Damon had been timing his fastball and was more than likely to hit it hard if he threw it over the plate. So he chose to throw is breaking ball. The pitch started over the middle of the plate but then, as Damon started his swing, the ball broke viciously downward, diving into the dirt. Too late, Damon had started his swing and couldn’t stop it before the bat had crossed home plate. No appeal to the third base ump was even necessary. Damon had struck out and he knew it.

Game, Set, Match El Duque.

The rest of the game was nerve wracking but mostly anti-climactic. Hernandez had the Red Sox eating out of his hand in the 7th and 8th inning, allowing only a Texas League single to John Olerude. And after the White Sox literally squeezed a run across in the top of the ninth giving them a two run lead, all that remained was for baby-faced Bobby Jenks to blow the Red Sox away in the ninth inning, a task that he accomplished with an alacrity that was almost like a merciful coup de grace to the Red Sox. Their gallant run was over.

For the celebrating White Sox, it was a trip back home to await the outcome of the Angels-Yankees series. And if those games have half the drama of the last two, I would suggest you get your heart medication refilled quickly. And while you’re at it, keep the Prozac handy because White Sox fans can anticipate even more nerve wracking chills and thrills during this next, longer, 7 game series.

UPDATE

The Crank ignores my Chisox clincher and gives a short, sweet, and spot-on analysis of the Yanks-Angels marathon that brought the Bronxies to the brink of elimination. While he rightly touts Torre as a great playoff manager, I questioned his use of Small in that relief situation in the fourth. While I recognize that he needed a pitcher that could have given him at least three innings, couldn’t Sturtz have filled the bill? As a former starter, Tanyon may have been more effective, being used to coming out of the pen. As it was, Sturtz came out of the bullpen to face only one batter.