Over the course of my time at South Side Sox, I’ve likely overshared my experience as I poor, provincial bumpkin growing up in an impoverished little backwater AAA town, with no MLB team to call my own. I’ve mourned aloud over watching terrific young players alight, ever so briefly, evanescent, on their way to someplace bigger, someplace better, someplace with a television package, never looking back. I’ve keened plaintively over the hollowness of the I-knew-them-when attached to such as George Foster, Dave Concepcion, Bernie Carbo, and then later Andres Galarraga, Randy Johnson, Mike Stenhouse. They shoot across the sky, shine brightly for a moment or two, long enough to tantalize the hicks, and then they’re gone, nothing more than a memory and highlight on Sportscenter.
Requiem for the AAAA star
