We are become the 1977 ChiSox, destroyer of nothing.

 

A long time ago, I know. But the White Sox were all the rage for about ten minutes that year.

The Pale Hose were owned by a baseball legend, the irrepressible Bill Veeck. As usual, Veeck had bought the team by the skin of his teeth, with no margin for spending big...only to see free agency come in. 

Unable to afford a single free agent, Veeck did his best to make the White Sox...fun. He brought us Disco Demolition Night (maybe not that much fun), marched as a one-legged fife player in the White Sox' 1976 tribute to the bicentennial, and even had his team play in shorts.  

To keep the team competitive on the field, Veeck, who did know his baseball, went around picking up every "loaner" of a ballplayer he could find.

The 1977 White Sox were a fabulous, ongepotchket collection of other teams' discards, one-year contracts, and pending free agents, along with a few young players from within the organization.

Eric Soderholm, Jim Spencer, Ralph Garr, Chet Lemon, Richie Zisk, Jorge Orta, Alan Bannister, Jim Essian, Brian Downing, Jack Brohamer, Don Kessinger, Wade Nordhagen, Lamar Johnson, Dave Hamilton, Steve Stone, Ken Brett, Lerrin LaGrow—the 1977 ChiSox were a veritable island of misfit toys.

But they could hit—their DH, a certain Oscar Gamble, led the team with 31 home runs—and they were entertaining. Under manager Bob Lemon, they were 5 1/2 games up on the AL West by the end of July, and still in first as late as August 19th, before the Royals' juggernaut swept them away. 

They ended up finishing 3rd, 12 games back, but they still drew nearly 1.7 million fans, big box office at the time, and everyone was thoroughly entertained.

Acclaim rained down on Bill Veeck. It was said that he had found the way for "small-market" teams to operate in the free-agent era. It was never explained exactly how Chicago is a "small market" (And I always wondered if the fans who had to watch Bill Veeck's underfunded teams really found him so irrepressible. But never mind.)

By the next year, though, the caravan had moved on. The White Sox went 71-90, and didn't have another winning season until Veeck was out the door. Bob Lemon was fired before the 1978 season was more than half-over—but then, you knew that part.

I admit: as a Yankees fan, I laughed at teams like this and their fans, poor saps.

Now, here we are. The New York Yankees stocking up on one-year loaners, unwilling to spend the big bucks on the great stars, and unable to trade for them. 

The Houston Astros found our offer for Kyle Tucker—the one guy out there whose performance might have approached Juan Soto's—to be crap, while giving him up for three Cub nonentities. It looks like we're one-and-done for free agents because, you know, they cost money.

Brian Cashman has brought us a closer who missed two-thirds of last season due to injury—and gave up the Mets' biggest blast of the season, when he did pitch. Now we not only lose superstars to the Mets, but rush to trade for their punching bags—for a year. 

Somehow, Plan B—or plans C, D, E, F, and G—never materialized. And they won't.

We are ourselves no more than a hodgepodge, a collection of odds and ends, improvised afresh, season after season. Somewhere right now, Bill "Veeck as in Wreck" must be laughing. The real wreck is in the Bronx.