Chicago Transplant Sees Some Differences Between Here, There

After 15 years of writing about sports in Chicago, I have spent the last four months writing about sports in San Diego. The differences are as pronounced as Roberto Alomar’s accent.

Chicago and San Diego warred culturally in 1984 when their National League baseball teams squared off in a playoff series won in five games by the Padres. Each city’s perception of the other is still skewed.

Yes, there are hoodlums in Chicago--some of them play for the Blackhawks. And, yes, there is a zoo in San Diego--its featured attraction is the soccer team’s front office.

If you want to alienate a Chicagoan, make a joke about thugs. If you want to alienate a San Diegan, make a joke about the zoo.

Best to alienate a New Yorker--make any joke.

In Chicago, the Cubs’ park got its name from a chewing gum. In San Diego, the Padres’ stadium got its name from a sportswriter.

In San Diego, everybody was atwitter recently when Padre Manager Larry Bowa filled the clubhouse with invective after a recent victory. In Chicago they still talk about the postgame burst of billingsgate delivered by Lee Elia, then the Cub manager, several years ago. You had to be there.

I wasn’t. But every time I listen to the tape of foul-mouthed Elia defending his players and ripping into the foul balls who show up at Wrigley Field to watch day baseball, I think about Lenny Bruce and John Maynard Keynes.

“Eighty-five percent of the world works for a living,” Elia said (in edited form). “The other 15 percent’s out here. It’s a playground for them.”

In Chicago, they have a popular newspaper columnist named Mike Royko who has that city convinced that San Diego is a playground.

I once worked at the same newspaper as Royko, who approached me one day in the city room. He wanted me to play that night on his 16-inch softball team. I told him I couldn’t. I was playing 12-inch softball that evening for my own team.

“Twelve-inch softball,” he grunted, “is for suburbanites.”

In San Diego, there probably are people who are convinced that Mike Royko’s mind is a playground.

In San Diego, they have a wide receiver called “Train” who will be returning to the Charger backfield next season after a one-year absence. In Chicago they have a defensive lineman called “The Refrigerator” who will return to the Bear backfield next year if he ever gets his weight under 900 pounds. Don’t hold your breath for the latter.

When William “The Refrigerator” Perry was at Clemson, somebody asked him to express his feelings about the three-tiered NCAA sanctions that had come down against his school after his freshman year.

“I’ve already played on a national champion,” Perry said, addressing Clemson’s banishment from the national rankings.

“And I’ve already played in the Orange Bowl,” Perry said, addressing the Tigers’ banishment from bowl games.

The hardest part, Perry said, was the NCAA’s decision to keep Clemson off television for a year. Actually it was Perry’s delightful misinterpretation of the television ruling that made it hard.

“I don’t know if I can go a whole year,” Perry said, “without watching any television.”

If that sounds apocryphal, there’s an NFL personnel boss who swears that a similar story about Perry is true:

It seems that the left guard and the left tackle of academically oriented North Carolina were having an awful time blocking Perry two-on-one in an Atlantic Coast Conference football game. So they hatched a plot.

At the line of scrimmage, the guard whispered to the tackle, just loud enough for Perry to hear: “I forgot the snap count.”

“It’s on two,” whispered the tackle, also loud enough for Perry.

On two, the offensive linemen didn’t move. Perry jumped offsides. Encroachment against Clemson. Five yards.

Next time up to the line of scrimmage, the guard whispered to the tackle he had forgotten again. “Three,” the irritated tackle whispered back.

You got it. Encroachment. On three. Five more yards against Perry.

After it worked a third time, Perry decided to do something about it. He found an official, held his arms out plaintively and said: “Hey ref, those guys are lying to me.”

In Chicago, they have nothing to compare with Tony Gwynn, although Andre Dawson is almost as much fun to watch--when they pitch to him.

In San Diego, they have nothing to compare with Michael Jordan, although Gary Anderson is almost as much fun to watch--when they get him the ball.

In Chicago, they have a baseball announcer, Harry Caray, who sings to the fans between the top and the bottom of the seventh. In San Diego, they have a TV sportscaster, Ted Leitner, who rambles like a wreck on the air. Both are impossible to ignore.

There are a million other things to write about the Chicago sports scene. You have just read about a few of the ones I remember most.

I hope there will be a million other things to write about the San Diego sports scene. You have just read about a few of the the ones I have noticed already.