Part V, October 2-8

From September to January, my Sundays are defined by two block events: the Bears game in the afternoon and dinner with Nana and Papa at night. When the Bears are on at some time other than noon (MNF, SNF, or even a 3 o’clock game),[1] I am confused and agitated. So to go through an entire weekend without any Bears game at all is entirely jarring. This one’s a little bit easier to take; since it’s only Week 4, I’m less ensconced in the football routine than if the bye was in Week 8 or later. Still, it’s unsettling, and I find it difficult to accomplish much with my extra three hours.

In a nice twist though, my parents were able to visit this weekend, meaning I had my parents’ company to focus on. It’s always great to see them, but I’ve taken a particular liking to hosting them. It’s such a different experience. Hello parents. Welcome to my home. May I get you anything? And yes, you were right to think of it, and so: please remove your footwear when you enter my apartment.

Today was the final day of baseball’s regular season, and on it, all scores were settled. Today I settle all family business. We’ve had some good races down the stretch. The Yankees and Red Sox battled it out for the AL East title while both attempted to hold off the surging club from Cleveland for the wild card, the Indians themselves trying to catch the slumping White Sox for the AL Central. In the end, Cleveland faultered; they dropped six of their final seven, with the six losses coming by a total of seven runs.[2] The Red Sox and Yankees ended up tying with 95 wins apiece, Boston taking the wild card for the third straight season. As for the White Sox…

On September 27^th, the Sox lost to Detroit 3-2. At the end of the day, they were two games ahead of Cleveland, and Cleveland was tied with Boston and New York, all of whom were a game ahead of the Angels. The Southsiders haven’t lost since, winning the final two against the Tigers by a combined score of 12-4 and then sweeping the Tribe. The AL’s final standings:

My folks left late tonight, goodbyes, hugs, kisses all around, and a plan to reunite in Wilmette on the fourth for Rosh Hashana. This time, it will be the White Sox season that continues for the High Holidays, with the Sox beginning their hunt for their first World Series title since 1917 by hosting the defending-champion Red Sox at the Cell for Game 1 on the fourth.

After much anticipation, the makers of Family Guy released a full-length straight to DVD Family Guy movie last week, entitled Family Guy Presents: Stewie Griffin—The Untold Story. Meg and I picked it up at Barnes & Noble yesterday and popped it in tonite after watching the Sox beat Boston in Game 1. It’s very funny, and of course Shocking, but even with all of my Family Guy/South Park/Chappelle’s Show experience, I found one moment in the picture to be particularly jaw-dropping.

After a near-death experience, Stewie (the talking baby) turns a social corner and becomes unabashedly polite and caring. Brian (the talking dog) does not buy into his act, and calls his bluff, getting Stewie to admit that he has not actually had an emotional transformation. Stewie is disappointed to have been “outed,” but remains unphased, claiming that this is hardly the worst thing he has ever done. Cut to a shot of Wrigley Field with the words “Cubs vs. Marlins” on its famous marquee. As soon as Meg and I saw that, we gasped, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, there was the sound of a batted ball…followed by a shot of Stewie sitting in the stands down the left field line right next to Steve Bartman, with an exchange that went something like this:

Bartman then flashes out his glove just as Alou leaps, misses, and falls out of the shot. Doo-fair.

I paused it immediately and called Ari, as he is both A. the biggest Family Guy fan I know, and B. among the biggest Cubs fans I know, and I warned him that come the 24 minute mark, he would be seriously upset.

In retrospect, it was very funny, even if it was incredibly shocking. At this point, I'm prepared for this show (and other shows of the like) to make light of the Holocaust, Princess Diana's death, and the Vietnam War, but I couldn't believe they took shots at Game 6. It’s not that Game 6 was legitimately more upsetting than any of those tragedies, it’s just that they didn’t happen to me.

Which brings us back to the White Sox. I’ve thought long and hard about my feelings for this White Sox team, and nothing I’ve come up with has been able to sway my natural reaction: Go Sox. Go Sox. Go-go-go Sox. Why not? This team is terrific. It’s more than having nothing against them; I actually like them. They’re fun. They play the good ball. They’re filled with guys you can root for. Even Pierzynski has begun to grow on me, even if he reminds me of the world’s most-annoying little brother. And when I think about how happy this team makes Luke and Sven and the Staffords and the Lorgerees and so many others with whom I share a connection…well, I just want them all to be happy. To think of the possibility of my friends turning on the new Family Guy movie in five years and having a similar experience…having to go through what I went through? Yuck. Why would I wish that upon them? Upon anyone, for that matter. I wouldn’t, and I don’t. Go Sox. Go-go Sox.

“I’ve thought a lot about the Cubs-Sox thing, and I just cannot root for the White Sox.” And then, before I’ve said anything, “Actually, I can’t think of any way not to root against the Sox.”

“For years, growing up, whenever I got into a baseball conversation with a Sox fan, all I got was ‘Cubs suck.’ We weren’t even always talking about the Cubs, but they found a way to bring it up. Sox fans have always been rude and classless to me, and now they’re telling me that I should root for their team because it’s good for the city? Come on.”

“First of all, you know the Sox fans weren’t rooting for the Cubs in 2003…but here’s the anology I have.”

“Go ahead.” As if I have to give him permission. This man is on a tear. I love it.

“It’s like family, and it’s like your deadbeat brother-in-law, the one who doesn’t work and is just an all-around asshole at all family occasions, just a complete doofer, always rude to you, making crap of your job that pays well, and thinking less of you for driving “that expensive import” of a car, and just looking down on your whole life in general, and he’s a total prick until one day when he’s in a jam, and he comes to you asking for a few thousand dollars because he’s a damn deadbeat, trying to guilt you into it since, after all, you’re family. Well, the Sox are that deadbeat brother-in-law, and you know what? I’m not giving him the cash.”

“I’m just not doing it. I’m not doing it. I don’t care what they say or how Sox-crazy everybody goes. I’m not doing it. To hell with them.”

The White Sox’ magical season began anew today, with the Sox pounding their red counterparts from Boston 14-2. The Cell was alive; fans excited, yes, but more importantly, optimistic. Perhaps it was all summed up best by one fan’s sign:

That’s the key: optimism. This team has a much different feeling than did the 2000 team, and any doubt about that was put to rest in the first inning when Ozzie’s club exploded for five runs off of our old friend Matt Clement. The Chin-Haired Wonder started things off Mitch Williams-style by plunking Pods and Jermaine,[3] with Iguchi sacrificing Podsednik to second in between. Pods stole third, and then Paulie[4] drove him in with a ground out to short that retired Dye. 1-0 Sox on a manufactured run; Ozzie-ball in full effect.

But they weren’t done: Everett and Rowand singled Konerko to second and then home for a run, and then The Great Irritant A.J. Pierzynski let fly on a deep ball that landed elsewhere, and the Sox led 5-zip. Contreras held it down through three (4 hits, 4 K, no walks, no runs), with Konerko sending one out in the bottom of the third with nobody on. 6-nothing Sox. Boston got two in the fourth on a sloppy inning, but the Sox followed it up with two runs in their half off of a two-run shot from Uribe that scored Pierzynski. That was enough to chase Clement (3 1/3 IP, 19 batters faced, 7 hits, three home runs, two hit batsmen, no walks, no K’s, 8 runs, all earned), who left amid scattered cheers from nostalgic/sympathetic Chicago fans, muffled groans from fans of Boston. 8-2 Sox in the fourth...

...and six more made it 14, Cliff Politte finishing Boston off easily in the ninth.

J. Contreras: 7.2 IP, 32 batters faced, 8 hits, 0 HR, 2 runs (1 earned), 0 walk, 0 HBP, 6 K.

Former Cubs: 5.2, 30 BF, 9 hits, 4 HR, 12 runs (all earned), 1 walk, 3 HBP, 0 K.

Non-former Cubs: 1.4, 11 BF, 2 hits, 1 HR, 2 runs (both earned), 2 walk, 0 HBP, 1 K.

It’s funny how fans react to their former players. While watching Game 1, I immediately framed the Red Sox pitchers as either “former Cubs” or “non-former Cubs.” Even though I was pleased to see the White Sox emerge victorious, I felt bad for Clement, a guy we always liked. He left under good terms, the odd man out of the Cubs’ stacked rotation. Seeing him get pounded at the Cell was not joyful.

On the other hand, watching former White Sox pitcher David Wells walk off the mound today knowing he’d need his offense and bullpen to save him…well, that was fun, and there was no way that I was nearly anywhere as excited about it as were the Sox fans, who cheered mightily when their team sent “Boomer” to the showers trailing 5-4 after seven.

And then there was former Sox infielder Tony Graffanino, a guy who came to the team during the 2000 season, proving to be a valuable reserve from 2000-2003. It was Graffanino who made the key error in the Sox’ five-run fifth, allowing Chicago to continue the inning and eventually take a 5-4 lead on Iguchi’s three-run homer. That time, there was no sadistic joy as there was with Wells; Sox fans were thrilled that their team had come back, but saddened just a bit that it came at the cost of Graffanino. Graffanino hurt; Sox fans sympathetic. Wells hurt; Sox fans ecstatic.

Jenks took over for Buehrle in the eighth, and was terrific (two IP, 8 BF, one walk, one double, no runs), and when Renteria grounded out to Uribe at short, the Sox were a game away from winning their first postseason series since winning it all in 1917.

Keith and Steve are inside, Steve with his usual detached friendliness, Keith with his usual inviting dissent.

“Bacon double?” Keith asks. It’s a comment designed for confirmation, and so I oblige.

“So man, what are the Cubs gonna do?” And then… “Wood’s done. They gotta ship his ass. Same with Patterson. And Dusty’s gotta go too.”

“Dude, kill that. I can’t listen to that right now. Bears and Bulls, sole focus.”

“I’ll tell you what though,” Keith says, beginning again, “if they win the World Series…” He shakes his head, not even believing it himself.

“And how about the Sox facing Clement, Graffanino, and the big guy Wells in the same series. Grudzielanek’s playing every day for St. Louis, Farnsworth—fucking Farnsworth! I can’t believe that dude’s in the playoffs. Have you seen him in Atlanta? You believe that?” He huffs, flipping my burgers and slapping down the cheese. “Have you seen what he’s doing? That guy was crazy over here. He was partying every night. That’s why he couldn’t pitch during day games. But Atlanta doesn’t mess around, man. Bobby Cox, man. He straightened his ass out.” He pulls the bacon out of the deep fryer, throws it on top of one of the burgers, throws that burger on top of the other, then pushes the top bun down on the top, moving his hand just as the flames shoot up. “I mean, Farnsworth, Grudz, David Wells, Clement, Lofton…that’s another guy we gave away. I’m telling you…we should have a Chicago tax, and every other ballclub should have to pay the Cubs and the Sox a million bucks a year for all the players we give them.”

I laugh. “Right. Then we could take that money to pay and develop more guys we’re going to give away.”

“The Yankees, man,” Keith says, beginning anew, “they’re done. They need to start over out there. Too many superstars, not enough ballplayers. Jeter’s the only one over there who gives a damn.”

I walk over to Steve, who punches me up on the register. “Yeah, I like Jeter.” I eat a fry. “I could root for him.”

“He’s a true Yankee. And I like Bernie Williams and Rivera, and Joe Torre’s still great, but man, Jeter…” He stops, and then he says something that really, really surprises me. “That’d be it, man. That’d be it. If I could be on one pro team for a day, it’d be the Yankees.”

“Most definitely. Can you imagine? Just to be a New York Yankee, man. Just to see what it would be like, to wear those pinstripes, sit in that dugout, be on that field. That would be wild.” He pauses, smiling. “I don’t need to be Jeter; just a solid guy. I wouldn’t want to be a bum like Randy Johnson or somebody. Just a good, solid guy. But Jeter would be crazy. He’s the fuckin’ man out there, man. And he’s not married, which is smart. He can play the whole scene.” He laughs. “He’s like Ruth!”

Sometimes the real world and the sports world collide, forcing a sports fan to make difficult choices concerning his involvement with both. And when this happens, we do what we have to do.

It was October of 2003. Early in the week I received a call from Ben: he had four tickets to the Bears-Raiders game, and would I be interested in going. As my personal rule of never turning down free Bears tickets was in effect, I did not turn down free Bears tickets. Thus I decided to drive in that weekend for what would be my first trip to New Soldier Field. Mike was also in town, so two sets of brothers—me and MJ, Ben and his little brother Daniel—set out for Soldier Field.

Normally going to a Bears game would be the most important event of the day, meaning that I could easily attend a noon game, leave Chicago by four, and with the time change be back in Bloomington by about 9:30. However, this was no ordinary day in Chicago sports, because on that same Sunday, the Cubs were preparing to play Atlanta in Game 5. It had been a terrific series, and though, technically, the Braves had matched us at two wins a piece, the series had felt like the Cubs’ all the way. We took Game 1, dropped Game 2 on a bullpen loss, watched Prior (CG, 2 hits, 1 earned, 4 walk, 7 K) out-pitch Maddux (6IP, 6H, 2 earned, 1 walk, 1 K) at a volcanic-Wrigley in Game 3, and then saw Clement last only four and two thirds in the Game 4 loss. And so it was back to Atlanta, Wrigley South it had been dubbed, for Game 5.

The game would be starting around five Eastern, meaning I couldn’t stay in the Chi to watch it because I had an 8 AM class on Monday morning. But I wasn’t about to skip a Bears game or leave early. That’s another rule. Never go if you’re not prepared to stay.[5] NO! I could not, would not leave Soldier Field early. My only choice was to enjoy the game to my fullest, and then haul-ass as fast as I could back to Bloomington, listening to Game 5 on the radio and hoping to arrive in town for the final inning.

As always, I was very excited to be going to a Bears game, but on this particular day my excitement was supplanted by two specific circumstances:

1. This was my first trip to New Soldier Field, and while I wasn’t crazy about the new look I was still excited to get my first New Soldier experience.

2. My last three Bears games had been toxic. I went to two games in 2001: the first a home loss to Green Bay, the second a playoff loss to Philadelphia, the final game at Soldier Field. And I went to one game in 2002 in Champagne, the embarrassing blowout loss to the Pack on Monday Night. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It sucks to lose.

Getting into the stadium, I finally saw in person what I’d seen on TV earlier that year, and in computer diagrams since ’01. Yes, the new park looked like a spaceship was squatting, but that was only from the outside. Inside, the stadium was beautiful. We were sitting up in the north endzone, and yet our seats had great sightlines. The sound system was booming, the big screens were clear and unobtrusive, and perhaps the most important aspect of Bears football…weather was still a factor.

The Bears went down early, trailing Oakland 18-3, but they mounted a comeback; 18-6 on an Edinger field goal, 18-13 on a touchdown from Kordell to Marty Booker, 21-18 Bears on a TD/2-pointer. The Raiders tied with a field goal, and then on the game’s last play, Edinger knocked home the game-winner. Bears 24, Raiders 21. Soldier Field went nuts. First win in New Soldier. A happy day…

…but no time to reflect and rejoice. I was on a clock. I sped home, dropped Ben and Daniel at their house, MJ at our’s. I had packed before the game, so all I had to do was jet Mike and dip to the Edens. I hit the highway at 85 MPH, flipped on the game and never looked back.

The Cubs one in the first, another in the second, and a two-run shot in the sixth from Aramis made it 4-0. Now I was calling everyone…it seemed the Cubs were definitely on their way to the NLCS for the first time in fourteen years. Perhaps more significant, though, was the fact that they were threatening to win their first postseason series since winning the World Series in 1908. Wow.

I ripped off a classic drive, burning it pretty much from the Loop to the tail end of 465 with no cops in sight the whole time, and though I made it to 37—the highway that connects 465 and Bloomington—in three hours, it wouldn’t cut. The bottom of the eighth had just ended, Atlanta down 4-1, and since it was clear that I wasn’t going to make it to Bloomington for the bottom of the ninth, I began looking for a bar.

I found a Bennigan’s, threw SANTO 10 on my back, and walked in. I got Jonny C on the horn, and the two of us watched as Joe Borowski took the mound to close out the Braves. Last Atlanta batter: Andruw Jones. Last Borowski pitch: strikeout.

I sat in the bar as casual fans watched the Cubs advance to the NLCS. I pumped my fist. Back on the road to Bloomington, to victory. The Cubs were four wins away from the World Series. And don’t it feel good…

I know exactly what he’s talking about, but for some reason, I ask anyways: “The Sox?”

“OK.” Luke is a mad man, yet I am calmed when I realize that his current emotional state appears to be the equivelant of one of those power roto-rooters we use at camp to dig out the base paths. Yup…those. Fortunately, my problem during pre-camp was more in strength than in approach, technique, and know-how, and so I am enthused when I see that I know exactly how to get info out of Luke. Just turn it on, let it power up, and guide it through by applying just enough pressure to make it cut where you want it to cut. That’s what I’ll have to do with Luke. “OK bud. Who started?”

“OK.” I can hear him breathing, though it’s more of a hum, and now I start to dig him into the dirt, guiding him. “How’d the Sox score?”

“Uh…uh…we got two in the third…Uribe doubled, Pods doubled to score Uribe, Tad singled to score Pods. Then Ortiz and Manny went back-to-back in the bottom half.”

“Alright. Um…oh man…OK. Manny went yard on a solo shot to start the inning. 4-3. And you could feel the crowd at Fenway going nuts. It’s like they think they’re going to recreate Game 4 from last year.”

“OK…So after the Manny homer, Damaso Marte came in to relieve Freddy, and immediately blew it. Lemme look just so I get it right.”

“Alright. Nixon singled, Bill Mueller walked, and then Helmet-Boy[6] walked to load the bases.”

“4-3 Good Guys. Bases loaded for the Red Sox with nobody out in the sixth.” Luke breathes.

“Yeah, right? So Varitek comes in to pinch-hit for Mirabelli, and then Ozzie goes back to the pen to bring in El Duque.”

“I know, right? I told you, man.” Now I’m with him. “I’m still just…wow.”

“Berman almost collapsed in the booth when El Duque struck out Damon. I mean, bases loaded, 4-3 Sox, full count with two outs.”

“You didn’t tell me that it was a full count to Damon!” This must have been completely insane.

“Yeah. And the K was on a check swing, so Fenway was going nuts. Then El Duque stayed in, and went 1-2-3 in the seventh while striking out Ortiz and getting Manny to ground out…”

“I know.” Luke suddenly gets his senses. “Wait. Why aren’t you watching it?”

“I told you yesterday: Meg and I are going to Ann Arbor to hang out with Lorrie and camp people.”

“I just talked to him right before you called. We’re literally up the block. We’re just looking for a place to park.”

Heldman begins his schtick: the faux-smooth operator. “Meghan; greetings. Welcome.” He laughs, eternally self-amused.

We go inside, and as we get in we hear a muffled excited squacking sound coming from upstairs. The TV is on in the front room right to the right of the front hallway, and when I get in I see Pierzynski sliding home to score on a squeeze play by Uribe, the pitcher Timlin’s hurried throw to the plate passing the catcher Varitek. 5-3 Sox.

Berman: “Here it is. (Timlin charges the ball, scoops it, and does a little side arm quick-toss to Varitek as A.J. charges.) Timlin will try it… (The ball bounces off of the top of Varitek’s glove as A.J. slides under the potential tag.) …Safe! How bout that-with the catcher at third base, they run the squeeze. And the White Sox lead it 5-3.”

At that, the Muffled Excited Squacker comes charging down stairs, Sox hat on head, THOMAS 35 on back, darting around the room to distribute and collect high fives from all parties before shooting back upstairs.

“It’s my roommate,” Heldman explains. “White Sox fan. He’s very excited.”

Meghan goes outside to call Lorrie, who is in her first semester in Ann Arbor after transferring from Roanoke. Heldman and I shoot the bull, and then Timlin throws behind Millar in a pick-off move and Uribe advances to second. Berman nearly chokes in amazement, and our man Rick Sutcliffe announces to Mike Piazza that “teams in the American League aren’t used to that,” referring, I guess, to squeezes and base stealing and sac hits. And then Berman goes off and floats into Historical Announcer Mode, reminding us that Boston won the Series last season for the first time since 1918, and that the White Sox haven’t won a Series since 1917. He’s not nearly as annoying as Costas, though, so maybe it’s not what is said but how it’s said.

Iguchi strikes out, and it’s on to the bottom of the ninth with the kid Jenks coming in to close. The line on Jenks: 32 games, 39 1/3 IP, a record of 1-1 with 6 saves and a 2.75 ERA. First up: the much-beleagured former White Sock[7] Graffanino. An 0-1 pitch misses low, and Berman begins: “Can Boston get going? Graffanino, Damon, Renteria, and perhaps…Ortiz and Ramirez. (long pause) Such a gallant three-year run…Win the whole prize last year…the White Sox have their eyes on that prize, and they’re just (pause), three, outs, away.” 1-2 to Graffanino. Ground out to Crede. Two outs away.

And now ESPN goes to the archives, showing clips from Boston’s run a season ago, as Berman continues. “Last year, a different story…” This is, essentially, a nod to the Red Sox fans watching, one that declares with a twinge of self-conscious joy: soak it up, Boston. Your time has passed. Berman even goes so far as to point this one out:

“…and then-Cardinal Edgar Renteria makes the last out for the Cardinals, and the Red Sox celebrate. Edgar Renteria could make the last out for these Red Sox in 2005. That’s amazing.” In other words: sorry Boston, but the story of your 2004 Red Sox did not end with you winning the 2004 World Series, but rather losing the 2005 ALDS. We care only about what you mean to us right now, and right now, you are simply a prelude to the 2005 White Sox. That’s something, ain’t it?

Next up, Damon. He goes down swinging. Two down. And here comes Renteria. Grounder past Jenks, Iguchi fields, throws to Konerko, and the muffled squack from upstairs turns into a full-on bullhorn of excitement, growing louder and louder as the Muffled Excited Squacker nearly tumbles down the stairs in celebration.

Berman: “The Red Sox’ dream to repeat…is over.” The camera goes into the Sox locker room where, in typical South Side fashion, the celebatory drink of choice is cans of Miller Lite. Awesome. ESPN names El Duque their player of the game. The man who was a postseason stud in New York before being left off the postseason rotation proved his worth in three innings; if he never throws another pitch for the White Sox, ever, Orlando Hernandez will always be remembered, will always be loved.

Robby, Weiss, and A.J. Bayard are all elsewhere, so Meg, Heldman and I pick Lorrie up at her dorm and head for pizza. Meghan and Lorrie are beyond thrilled to be hanging out together, leaving Heldman and myself plenty of time to talk.

“I was down in Bloomington last week. Watched the Bears-Bengals game with Slovin.”

“I gotta tell you, I have nothing against the Bengals, but you guys have some pretty obnoxious fans. These guys at Yogi’s were cheering absent-mindedly for everything.”

“But come on. They were cheering and yelling at us after we lost the challenge on the Gage bobble.”

“Whatever.” And then, in perfect Heldmanese: “Cubs fans are reprehensible.”

“Dude, here’s the thing. Bengals fans have been down for soooooo long. Do you know what that’s like?” And then, before I can answer, “I mean, soooooo long. So now we’re celebrating. We’re like a bunch of rappers with number one hits, just living it up for all the years that we were in the cellar.”

GO TO NEXT SECTION: October 9 to October 15

RETURN TO readjack.com

[1] Actually, even being an hour off due to Eastern time is weird. This is my fifth season in Eastern time after four years in Bloomington. I just can’t get used to football at 1 and 4 rather than noon and 3.

[2] 5-4 to KC, 5-4 to Tampa, 1-nil to Tampa, (6-zip win over Tampa), 3-2 to the Sox, 4-3 to the Sox, 3-1 to the Sox. Wow.

[3] Yes, Jermaine Dye has entered first name status, and without the aid of an unusual name (Tadahito) or initials (A.J.) Just good ol’ fashioned first name status.

[4] While my use of Pods, Tad, Jermaine, A.J., or Ozzie stem from hearing them repeated so often by The Fans, The Media, and The Other Players, my use of Paulie comes directly from Luke.

[5] This is a very important rule, as Jonny C found out during the ’03 season. Jonny was at UCLA at the time, I was at Indiana, and as I was going to camp over the summer we realized that we now had very few opportunities to frequent Wrigley together. And so…in a nearly unprecedented act of extreme-travel, Jonny decided that we would go to the Cubs-Rockies game on Sunday, May 4^th. In doing so, he had to fly LAX to Indy on Friday, drive home with me on Saturday, go to the game on Sunday, and then fly back to L.A. Sunday night. When the ninth ended with the teams tied at 4, Jonny’s strict schedule forced he and his brother Mike to head to O’Hare. An inning later, Mike’s friend and I celebrated madly as Alex Gonzalez’s pinch-hit tenth inning solo home run sailed out of the park to give the Cubs a 5-4 win. And that’s why there’s a rule.

[6] This is Luke’s name for Boston’s first baseman John Olerud, who wears his batting helmet while fielding for precautionary measures due to a brain aneurysm he suffered while in college. Luke remains curiously unsympathetic.

[7] I’m never sure how to do a singlular version of that. Possessive is difficult as well, i.e. “The White Sox’s Paul Konerko homered.” Is that right?