RSS FeedAug. 4, 2008
Regular readers of Wall of Paul know by now that I’m a Cleveland Indians loyalist, and that I was excited just a handful of weeks ago because the Indians were looking like a genuine 2008 playoff contender. I wasn’t saving up for World Series tickets, mind you. But I was certainly willing to jangle the change in my pocket while I dared to think about The Glory.
It was all so promising. So hopeful. So non-Bush-driven.
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Since then, however, the Indians - outside of Grady Sizemore and Cliff Lee - look like a bunch of comedians. Injuries have pretty much decimated our ranks. We’re now in last place in our division, thirteen games out…unless we lost another one while I was in the kitchen getting a Coke, which is completely possible. So the potato is officially out of the pierogi in Cleveland. And it won’t be coaxed back in before the end of this season.
***
As you might imagine, I’m not about to totally focus my baseball passions on some other team. But when the Indians fall completely out of contention - as they did very, very quickly throughout my infancy, childhood, adolescence, and most of my adulthood - I’ve always been willing to keep an eye on some other squad that has one or two appealing players and a decent chance of winning the whole thing. If they don’t win, who cares? And if they manage to pull it off, then I’m happy for the cool guy.
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This year, I’m halfway-following the surprisingly effective Chicago Cubs, because of their whirling-dervish left fielder, Alfonso Soriano.
Soriano was always a kick to watch back when he played for the Yankees, which isn’t an easy thing to accomplish, and nowadays he regularly lets his enthusiasm fly at Wrigley Field. He reminds me a little bit of Roberto Clemente, one of my favorite players when I was a kid. Soriano, like Clemente, looks like he’s having a great time when plays. Even if he’s a multi-millionaire, he’s still got a bit of the sandlot in him, and you have to like that.
Soriano hits for more power than Clemente ever did (he started this season in a slump, then, in May, exploded for seven home runs in six games), and he could certainly be a better fielder. But he and the late Hall of Famer share a spinning-out-of-control athleticism that makes them look like they might slam into the wall during an especially reckless moment and burst into flames.
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Clemente was a master with the glove, and may well have had the strongest non-pitching arm in major league history; he could throw the damn thing on a rope, from the warning track all the way to the plate. But his sparks-flying highlights often came while running the bases, where the wild pumping of his arms and legs made it look like he was Gettin’ The Hell Outta There before a bomb went off. If you saw him do it just once, you never, ever forgot it.
Soriano, on the other hand, appears to be freaking out while he hits. He’s got this swooping, here-we-go swing (see the picture) that ends with the bat flying away in one hand, like he’s leaned out of a car window and pounded down a mailbox. WHAM! And he can barrel down the baseline, too. He seems spring-loaded, like a Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot in Cubs clothing.
My only problem with pulling for Soriano is the detestable vibe generated by many Cubs fans. I, of course, know what it is for my team to lose, and I’ve even perversely wallowed in it during those seasons when you expected Walter Matthau to deliver the Tribe's scorecard to the ump. Remember, the Indians used to stink all the time; you had to invent ways to enjoy the season.
A large swathe of the Cubs’ faithful, though, have transformed their futility into a bizarre badge of honor; Chicago's arch-diocese should take the logical next step and laser-print “LOSERS” on the Eucharist. Church attendance would go through the roof.
When you actually manage to blame a fellow fan for blowing one of your few chances to make it to the World Series - Remember that whole “Steve Bartman” fiasco? - you might not deserve to go to the World Series. You know what I mean? So my hope is that some of Soriano’s mountain-fresh fervor will rub off on the gang up in the bleachers, and they won’t have to find somebody to blame besides their own players if things peter out again. Between that poor son-of-a-bitch Bartman and some drunk guy's goat, enough is enough.
Winning the whole thing must be better than losing it, though. Not that I could tell you from experience.
Paul Tatara
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