Zalusky: Sox clincher evokes sweet memories of 1983

In two days I would celebrate my 23rd birthday. First, there was a championship party to attend.

A sellout crowd of 45,646 packed Comiskey Park on a September Saturday night, vaulting White Sox attendance over 2 million, the first time a Chicago baseball team reached that mark.

I was nestled in a lower deck seat, the air was electric with anticipation, but the Seattle Mariners delayed the Comiskey garden party in the top of the ninth when Ricky Nelson, pinch hitting for Dave Henderson, tied the score at 3 with a two-run double off Sox reliever and former Cub Dennis Lamp.

In the bottom of the ninth another former Cub, Bill Caudill, was brought in to relieve Seattle starter Jim Beattie.

After a Jerry Hairston-lineout, Caudill walked Julio Cruz, Rudy Law and Carlton Fisk. Seattle's skipper Del Crandall lifted Caudill for lefty Ed Vande Berg. As he ran in from the bullpen, the fans were on their feet, clapping and singing along as organist Nancy Faust played "Runaround Sue."

A banner hung over the left field wall. "O-O-Oh, for the long one," a relic from the South Side Hit Men era.

After all the waiting, it was over on Vande Berg's first pitch. Harold Baines, who earlier homered, lifted a fly ball to center field. Cruz, acquired in midseason from the Mariners, raced home and tagged home plate to earn the Sox the 1983 Western Division title.

The bottled up enthusiasm was uncorked, the fireworks were unleashed and the fans poured out of the stands, swarming the field with a pandemonium not seen at Comiskey since Disco Demolition Night but in a much more positive way.

I didn't join the mob, choosing to stay in my seat and process the incredible reality that the Sox, the embodiment of futility for most of my years rooting for them, were actually headed to the postseason.

As I relished the moment, the players were cracking open champagne in the clubhouse, and Hawk Harrelson was interviewing a dark-haired, svelte and energetic Sox manager Tony La Russa.

I watched that interview on YouTube just minutes after streaming the AL Central clincher in Cleveland on Thursday and seeing a heavier, grayer and slower La Russa embracing Jose Abreu after the game.

I was also heavier and grayer just days after celebrating another birthday, and my mind drifted back to that magical year of 1983.

It was a different baseball landscape. There was no launch angle, exit velocity or shifts. You didn't hear about performance enhancing drugs.

Unlike Guaranteed Rate Field, Comiskey was a pitcher's park, and the "Winning Ugly" Sox, as they were known, rode their pitching. LaMarr Hoyt, Rich Dotson and Floyd Bannister were dominant in the second half, combining for a 42-5 record and a 2.52 ERA in that stretch.

Still, there were offensive thrills, provided by speedy Rudy Law, who stole 77 bases, and clutch hitting right fielder Baines, who was also a splendid fielder. Fans would chant "Haaa-rold, Haaa-rold, Haaa-rold" when he came to bat. By the way, the cadence of the chant changed when he later returned to the White Sox.

Sox offensive muscle was supplied by "the big man from Gary," rookie Ron Kittle, and "the Bull," Greg Luzinski, who deposited long balls on baseball's version of Mount Everest, the Comiskey Park roof.

I'll never forget the thrill of my first in-person roof shot, when Luzinski, on national television, launched a pitch by the Yankees' Ray Fontenot.

I was in the lower deck, watching it soar and disappear from sight above the overhang of the upper deck.

I didn't dare blink as I waited for it to drop back into sight until, finally, Luzinski's comet reappeared, bouncing onto the roof.

On another memorable night against the Angels, Britt Burns pitched a one-hitter. Former Sox hurler Tommy John yielded back-to-back-to-back homers to Fisk, Tom Paciorek and Luzinski. The air was so thick with fireworks smoke you could hardly see the field.

La Russa, the future Hall of Fame manager, had yet to win a championship. But the fire was there. Arguing an umpire's call in a game against Baltimore, he tore the third base bag from its mooring, heaving it into the dugout.

I probably attended 30 games at the old ballyard that year. Fans in those days didn't communicate via social media. There were no in-game tweeting or selfies. In fact, when attending alone, I was often accompanied by a paperback edition of "The Brothers Karamazov."

At home, I watched the games on free analog TV. We didn't have the cable box to get SportsVision, but I was able to manipulate the tuner on my small black-and-white bedroom TV to get a fuzzy, wavy image and tune in Joe McConnell on the radio for audio accompaniment.

I would tape the games on my new Betamax machine (which I still have). I copied the tapes to DVD years ago.

Recently, I thought of the pure joy of that season as I spoke with Kittle for an upcoming Sunday column. Time had caught up with both of us in a way. He spoke about undergoing MRIs the day before. That day, I had gotten my regular diabetes screening.

When the Sox clinched, it was nice to know something of my youthful years of baseball fandom remained, even if the link turned out to be a septuagenarian Sox manager.

A part of me still wishes I could score a scalped seat at the old Comiskey, feel the sultry summer night breezes, see the light shimmering in the trees through the ballpark arches, get some tacos at one of the vendors' carts, watch Kittle or Luzinski park one on the roof, and hear the strains of lovely Nancy on the organ.