BIG THANKS TO BIG FRANK

There’s no shock factor here, just a quiet goodbye to baseball. Probably the way it should be for Frank Thomas—the misunderstood, often controversial White Sox slugger.

Let’s get a few things straight: not every athlete can handle the media with the finesse of Michael Jordan. Not every athlete can be a saint to his city like Drew Brees or be as debonair as Derek Jeter. Frank was none of these things.

What Frank was is what all children dream of being—an artist with a baseball bat instead of a brush and a glorious diamond as his canvas. Frank lined balls into gaps, made outfielders sprint into corners, drove balls over walls and gracefully poked them into shallow right with such ease he seemed bored at times.

I first took notice of Frank at age nine—1993 to be exact. While sitting in front of a television at my grandparents’ house, it was impossible to miss the living giant in black and white. He was called “Big Hurt.” How could you miss this show?

At Comiskey Park, PA announcer Gene Honda announced Frank as if introducing a Greek God. Frank slowly strolled to the plate like he knew the opposing pitchers’ hand was starting to sweat. He kicked around dirt in his batters box to make it his home—after all Frank wasn’t a free-swinger, often working deep into counts and coaxing a base on balls. Then he’d glare at that pitcher like they were his worst enemy and wave his bat at them as if to make sure they understood he was about to inflict serious pain on their offering.

After winning the 1993 MVP award, Frank was on pace to win the AL Triple Crown in ’94. With a .353 batting average, 38 home runs and 101 RBI when the strike hit, he was robbed of the chance. But I had a hero for the game I loved to play.

I tried to emulate Frank in little league, in batting practice at the park and in pickup games on my block. On a family trip to Orlando, a sporting goods store had a massive sign of Frank promoting his new cleat; naturally I talked my father into buying them for me. Here was my hometown hero, making me proud over 1,000 miles from home.

Never getting credit for being fan-friendly, Frank managed to give me a thrill at a Cubs vs. White Sox interleague game at Wrigley Field in 1999. Hovering behind the visitor dugout in my prime autograph-collecting days, I was the only one with guts to ask the giant for his autograph. He kindly obliged sending me into a Carl Lewis-esque sprint back to my parents. Had Frank struck out four times, my smile still would have been ear-to-ear. He homered onto Waveland Avenue, I still smile every time I look at his faded signature on that ball.

The following season, Frank hit .328 with 43 home runs and 143 RBI leading the Sox to a surprising 95-win season. He would finish as runner-up for AL MVP to Jason Giambi of the Athletics—an award that would later prove to be tainted as a result of performance enhancing drugs.

By 2005, Frank’s tenure in a White Sox uniform was coming to an end. He managed to hit 12 home runs in 34 games while providing a mid-season spark for the eventual World Series champions. Ironically, the White Sox legend could only watch as his team ended their 88-year title drought. Many things I watched or read following the final out of the series brought tears to my eyes. None more than the image of Frank kissing the glorious, champagne-soaked trophy.

Frank would depart for Oakland, but I made sure I was in the stands to welcome him back to the south side upon his return. The standing ovation was deafening and Frank obliged, crushing two home runs into the left field seats where so many of his blasts landed in his 15 years with the Sox. I proudly stood and applauded for both.

With his body breaking down, Frank sacrificed his lofty batting average to reach the 500 home run milestone and secure his place among the greats of the game.

And he did it naturally, no substances to boost his statistics like so many of his counterparts in the “steroid era.” His achievements have taken on even greater significance. Frank advocated tougher drug-testing as far back as 1995 and was the only active player to volunteer to testify for the Mitchell Report. A true idol, a true legend.

Barry Bonds may have the home run records. Mark McGwire has a highway named after him in St. Louis and Sammy Sosa is a king in the Dominican Republic.

As was the case so many times throughout his career, Frank will have to settle for less. He’ll have to settle with having his number 35 retired at the stadium he helped build at 35th & Shields.

He’ll have to settle into his place as the greatest hitter Chicago has ever seen.