The Underground Insight 07.02.07: Hurts So Good

Posted by JD Koziarski on 07.02.2007

A personal retrospective of the career of “The Big Hurt” Frank Thomas, including the many ways Thomas has made my life as a sports fan so much better.

The Show

My parents like to tell the stories of how, as an eight-year-old boy – the age of eight the perfect candidate to encompass everything from seven to eleven – they would hear me in the yard singing The Star-Spangled Banner in the South Side's early summer light. Singing in the direction of the miniature American flag I had propped up in the chain-link fence, the solitaire game of Wiffleball required strict adherence to the details of the game. I took my backyard facsimile seriously.

After the formalities, the imaginary defense – some sad sack American League team – took the field (my team was a sort of permanent barnstormer that was always the visitor) and I grabbed my yellow bat the porous plastic ball and dug into the box.

The field ran diagonally across the basically square plot of yard; if a pitcher had existed during these games he would have been protected from behind by a decrepit apple tree as he faced southwest when he peered in on the batter. The first base line ran alongside the neighbor's yard towards my own house, which served as a makeshift Green Monster for anybody who dared to attempt a big fly to right field. The route from first to second was, essentially, along the walk from the street to the back door, and second to third took you along the fence signaling the end of the yard. A ball over that fence was originally a home run, but eventually the fences were moved back – first to the street, then across the street entirely – as I outgrew the friendliest of confines.

My leadoff hitter in those days was the switch-hitting "Rock" Raines, which of course meant that I had to turn around and bat left-handed. With a flick of the right wrist, I softly tossed the ball into the air and as it came down I would often slap a hard single back up the middle. Nobody out, runner on first, and up to bat came "One Dog" Lance Johnson. Johnson, if white, would be a grinder (nobody tell me grinders can be black guys – you never see that description except when applied to minimally talented white guys like David Eckstein), so naturally he would get on base via some kind of slap infield single down the third-base line. I don't think I ever hit one of my majestic "House Monster" home runs as Johnson. That just wouldn't be right.

The imaginary crowd rose to their collective feet for the next guy. At the time, he was the most feared hitter in the game. I took my stance, as far back from home plate as the umpire would allow. I stared down that poor sap who was about to launch a meatball towards home plate for me to devour. I stood upright and brought the bat forward through the strike zone. Once. Twice. Three times. And then, with right hand still on the bat, I left in on my shoulder so I could deliver the pitch.

Crack.

The ball went high and deep, way over that chain-link fence. It flew past the sidewalk and over the quiet street. When it finally landed, it did so with a clang against the fence that belonged to the nice old lady who lived across the street. Somewhere, Hawk Harrelson yelled, "You can put it on the board – Yes!" and I trotted around the bases. Rather, Frank Thomas trotted around the bases.

If I had to roughly estimate how many Frank Thomas long balls I have seen in my lifetime, I would say it has to be at least 400. Maybe more. Many of those I saw live. But in my life, Frank always was much more than just a big slugger. As a kid, I certainly did not realize just how awesome Thomas' presence was. I had no idea that a hitter like that – a right-handed hitter like that – just simply does not exist on planet Earth. But I knew he was good. Real good.

I never made it through a full 162 game season in what my friends and I called "Griffey." The game was Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball, a 1994 game that had no MLBPA license, but it did allow you to edit the names. And edit those names I did! Even though I could never get through a full season before the unreliable battery backup on the game crapped out and erased everything, I'm pretty sure Frank Thomas would have set the all-time single-season home run record with around 97. Even in video games, Frank (U. Josh before editing) was awesome.

I shouldn't have to explain to everybody all the ways that Thomas has dominated baseball for nearly two decades. If he chooses to retire when his contract with Toronto expires after the 2008 season, he will have 2500 hits, 1500 runs, almost 500 doubles, more than 500 home runs, more than 1700 walks (top 10 all time, and if Bonds retires after this year Frank will be the active leader), and a career .985 OPS.

And he's clean.

In this era, a .985 career OPS is not as impressive as it should be. But Frank Thomas put up those numbers while demanding performance-enhancing drugs testing the entire time. Thomas was a monster of a man in 1990, just as he is in 2007. The man should be viewed as a freak of nature, not a freak of laboratory.

And he should have three MVPs.

In 2000, Thomas and Jason Giambi were basically neck-and-neck in the MVP race. I was lucky enough to score tickets to Game 1 of the White Sox/Mariners playoff series. In support of Big Frank, I brought a sign that simply said "MVP." During that game, ESPN's camera crew focused on me while holding up that sign and leading a chant of the three letters. Frank had a bad series, which fueled ridiculous A-Rod-like rhetoric of Frank not being clutch, but he still should have won that MVP award, especially knowing what we know now.

When I talk about Thomas meaning so much to me, it goes beyond baseball. If it were not for Frank inspiring me to create that MVP sign, I never would have been on TV that day. The next day at school, one of the guys who hung around the periphery of my group of friends but had never spoken to me said he saw me and my sign at the game. Now he is one of my best friends and a fixture in my remaining Thomas anecdotes.

In Chicago, Frank is not the loved icon he should be. Instead, that honor went to Sammy Sosa for the bulk of the 90s. That right there is why I generally hate Chicago sports fans. On one side of town is one of the best hitters of all-time, a friendly guy, a man who respects the game and himself enough to not cheat. On the other is a fraud of a human being. A cheater, a phony, a fake, and an overall bad guy. But, because Frank wasn't the most media-friendly athlete and because he had a penchant for saying harmless, stupid things, he was vilified by the media and fans alike. He was portrayed as a man who disliked the fans, but that could not be more of a lie.

In 2003 I attended the White Sox annual FanFest. I went with my father and the aforementioned friend. I was no fan of how the event is organized, but to sum it up: they had players signing a limited number of autographs, some fundamentals sessions where players explained how to do some basic baseball things, and seminars with coaches/GM, players, etc. It was impossible to do everything, so a lot of the time we were separated so we could all experience a part of the event.

At one point of the adventure, my buddy and I were waiting in line for some autographs from a handful of players while my dad waited in line to get Thomas' autograph. The Thomas line was nearly full; he was one of the last two or three people allowed to wait to meet the Big Hurt before they cut off the rest of the people. When he approached Thomas with the 8" x 10" photo of the future Hall of Fame superstar, he got a bright idea.

"Put 45 in the corner there," my dad said while pointing to the lower right-hand corner of the photo.

"Why?" Frank asked.

"Because that's how many home runs you're going to hit this year."
Frank signed the photo and wrote 45 in the corner. 2003 was an amazing comeback season for the Hurt; 2002 was merely a mortal season and 2001 was a twenty-game injury-shortened year. During the regular season, Frank jacked 42, one shy of his career high. But that doesn't make this story work, does it? Well, Frank had 3 spring training home runs in 2003. A stretch? I submit that it is not.

I wouldn't doubt if you asked Frank about this and he had no clue what you were talking about. Maybe he would, but I'm sure he meets to many fans who ask him ridiculous things that a story about 45 home runs wouldn't even register. But it happened, and it's just one of the ways Frank has gotten me to smile over the years.

When he hit that 500th home run last week, I could not help but reflect on his 400th. As far as milestones go, that was the only one I recall witnessing live. And I didn't just happen to accidentally see it, that night on July 25, 2003 was the culmination of a carefully constructed plan. We (as if I could share this Thomas moment with anybody but the friend I met because of Thomas) went to a lot of games in 2003, but the vast majority were half-price Mondays and Tuesdays. So attending on a Friday night was, first, expensive. It also was a gamble: we had no idea if Frank would hit his 400th that night, the next, or a week later. That's what makes this story so cool, but also so bittersweet.

The plan was to arrive early, because even though White Sox attendance was mediocre at that point, it was Rat Pack night. Rat Pack night is huge, as it should be. Plus, it was a Friday so that always meant a bigger-than-usual crowd, even if this particular Friday Rat Pack extravaganza was against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. But if we got there early enough, we could get the tickets we wanted: the first ten rows above the White Sox bullpen in left field. Again, no guarantee Frank hits one there if he hit one at all, but we were playing the percentages that one of us would get that ball.

The time to leave is drawing near and I cannot get a hold of my friend. It wasn't like him to just disappear, and his apparent evaporation from the world was worrisome. But, after some time, I found out he was simply held up at work. More accurately, he was working overtime. Overtime. On Frank Thomas Home Run Day. I was livid.

Well, not livid, but certainly not happy. This comes on the heels of him not coming through on tickets to the All-Star Game just a few weeks earlier. But hey, we made it to the game. We made it on time, even. But we did not make it early so our seats were in the right section, but about 15-20 rows too high. I practiced my angry glare.

In the bottom of the 5th inning, already up by a handful of runs, Thomas strolled to the plate to face beleaguered starter Jorge Sosa, who had just given up a two-run bomb to Carlos Lee. Thomas crushed that ball directly into our section, but he didn't crush it enough for two guys who show up to games not according to plan. Would we have gotten the exact seats necessary to get that ball? Reality says it's impossible to say, but I say absolutely. The perfect arrangement of the entire event was designed for us to get that ball. And yes, I realize that talking about some sort of serendipitous supernatural act goes against the very point of this column, but this is my story and I'll tell it how I please.

So we didn't get that ball, but as Frank rounded the bases I held up yet another sign. Like nearly three years before, I was again shown on TV. This time it was the local Chicago broadcast of the game, but TV is TV and twice I was on TV because of The Big Hurt.

Frank has had plenty of career milestones that have culminated in his 500th home run, but those 500 home runs only account for a little over 20% of his hits. Right now, he has more than 2300. Near the end of that 2003 season, Frank was vying for his 2000th. Again, the plan was to see the hit live, but I had no sign planned.

On our way into the park, we passed the kiosk where the people shill credit cards. You may have seen these at your own local park. If not, the deal is this: You sign up for some credit card you never plan to use and you get something free. Sometimes it's a shirt or a cap. This particular night it was a giant beach towel. So we got a towel or two because we had some extra time, and before the game we met up with some family of mine and took our seats above the visitor's bullpen in right field. It was at that point that my cousin had a brilliant idea: Use the back of the towel to make a sign.

It is at this point that I feel there is a missing detail to this story, because we did make that sign. In fact, I distinctly remember my cousin and I both coloring in the numbers with black markers. But, if no sign was on the agenda, why in the heck did we have markers? Well, that will have to remain a mystery. The point is: a simple sign that said "2000" in ginormous numbers was made.

You know the big man came through. He got that 2000th hit and a group of about five of us hoisted that banner-like towel-sign as high as we could. I wondered if we had gotten on the local broadcast, since that is the one I was taping at home (the ESPN simulcast was blacked out).

I would not discovered until I got home and reviewed the tape that the local broadcast showed some other lame signs and not ours, but what happened a couple minutes after the knock was far too cool to omit. My cousin's cell phone rang. It was her mom (or brother, again, details get fuzzy after years go by) on the line from Louisiana. They had just seen all of us on ESPN.

I've been to at least 100 baseball games in my life. And I have some clear memories of games that don't involve Frank Thomas. But most of my biggest memories, the thoughts that send chills up and down my body every time I think them, are Frank Thomas moments. The guy has provided me more entertainment than any other baseball player. The man's ascent to the top of the hallowed baseball record books has meant almost as much to me as it has anybody else.

As I typed that last sentence, I just saw a highlight of his 501st home run today in Seattle. Watching him round those bases will never get old to me. He's 39 and I wish he could play until he was 49. I am truly saddened to know that, as the Rat Pack Frank might say, Frank's days are shorter and his career is in the autumn of the year.

Frank might not be a vintage wine that gets better with the years, because there's not a chance he tops his otherworldly prime, but it was a very good career.

To repeat what I said to end last week's column: Thank you for every single memory you have given me over the years, Frank. I sincerely hope there was many, many more. Stay healthy, keep getting it done, and hang around for 600.

''This means a lot to me because I did it the right way,'' Thomas said after hitting his 500th home run. And for that, I thank you on behalf of every baseball fan for everything you've done for this game. You (and Griffey) should be the heroes of the "Steroid Era." It shouldn't be Bonds, Sosa, or McGwire. It should be The Big Hurt and The Kid.

In my perfect world, Thomas and Griffey retire at the same time. I'd love to see them go into the Hall together. That would be the perfect end to two careers that were as close to perfect – injuries notwithstanding – as one could expect.


Enter the Sandman

I should do this in a "Say What?!" but it's so stupid I can't even respond to it. I'll just point out something I saw on TV.

Eric Young just said that Jimmy Rollins deserved to make the All-Star team over Jose Reyes.

Go on. Let that one sink in.

In the meantime, I have to end this column by giving props to my boy, Aaron. He had a decent bounce back June after a slow May, but I thought he had no shot at making the NL All-Star team. I'm glad I was wrong. So even though the A's had a number of snubs (namely Gaudin and Cust), I'm happy to see Aaron Rowand finally crack an All-Star squad.