By the time the last check is written and deposited into Sammy Sosa's bank account, the Chicago Cubs will have paid him nearly $16 million to go away -- to not play for them, to not hit home runs or sell tickets or mug for the cameras or sprint out to right field at Wrigley Field. Buyer's remorse is common in baseball by the end of many guaranteed long-term deals, but rarely has a team been so willing to eat so much money to be rid of such a once-iconic player.
To see the Baltimore Orioles' brass beaming proudly as Sosa donned an Orioles uniform at his news conference Wednesday evening -- his trade from the Cubs having been finalized only minutes before -- was to understand what a treasure the team believes it has acquired.
The Orioles are thrilled to have Sammy Sosa and the Cubs are just as happy to be rid of him.
(Gail Burton - AP)
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"It's a thrill for us all," Orioles Manager Lee Mazzilli said later. "Sammy is a guy who can take us over the top."
But Wednesday's unveiling of Slammin' Sammy at Camden Yards also brought constant reminders that the Orioles' new treasure -- as effervescent and photogenic as he was, and as well-rehearsed as his answers were -- was also someone else's trash.
The news conference was dominated by questions from Chicago-area reporters, demanding accountability from Sosa for his actions last season, which undoubtedly forced the trade -- or, barring that, at least an explanation for what went wrong. The same question was asked dozens of different ways, and not once did Sammy bite. No apologies, no bitterness, and barely the tiniest twinge of regret.
"I spent 13 years in Chicago," Sosa said, "and they were the most beautiful years of my life. I gave Chicago everything I have. I'm always going to have Chicago in my heart. I love you. . . . Whatever problems I had in Chicago will stay behind. I want to talk about the Orioles and my new manager and how we, together, are going to do great things."
To drive the point home, Sosa took out a full-page ad in Chicago newspapers Thursday morning saying, "It's been an honor to play for the best fans in baseball. I was proud to be a Cub. My heartfelt thanks to the Cubs organization, my teammates and the fans of Chicago for 13 wonderful years. Thank you Chicago -- I love you!"
At some point, one figures, Sosa must answer the questions: What was the nature of his problem with Cubs Manager Dusty Baker? How did it feel to be booed last year by the fans who once worshipped him? Why, during the Cubs' final game of the 2004 season, did he leave the stadium less than 15 minutes after the first pitch, breaking a cardinal rule by bailing out on his teammates?
Sosa may have wanted to answer those questions, but he decided the time to do so was not Wednesday evening -- either because it would have sullied the Orioles' joyful moment, or because, as one Chicago columnist wrote, "his ex-bosses know where all the corked bats were buried."
As recently as 1998, Sosa was being credited -- along with Mark McGwire, his home run race foil -- with helping save the game of baseball. As recently as 2001, he was putting up the third 60-homer season of his career. As recently as 2003, he was a 40-home run man, and his daily sprint out to right field was still bringing down the house.
How could Sosa's relationship with the Cubs and the Wrigley faithful have gone so bad, so quickly that it could lead, this week, to what was arguably the biggest, most unceremonious dump job in baseball history?
Sosa's manager and some of his teammates were quick to pin the blame on Sosa himself, making it clear there was a vast discrepancy between the smiling, public Sosa who loves the camera and the private Sosa who was manipulative and prone to diva-dom. "He had problems with the fans, the media, with some of his teammates," Baker said recently.
If Sosa has a fatal flaw, clearly it is vanity. It was in 2003, as his home run totals began to fall precipitously, that Sosa decided the way to remedy the situation -- and maintain his relevancy in the game -- was by corking his bat, a decision that blew up on him, literally, when his bat shattered and revealed his shame, and Sosa was given a seven-game suspension. In hindsight, the corked-bat incident was the beginning of the end of Sosa's icon status in Chicago. And the end of the end came last Oct. 3, when he bailed out on his teammates. At the time, Sosa claimed he had left during the seventh inning, only to be proven a liar by a security videotape that showed him leaving minutes after the first pitch.
By giving Sosa a much-needed change of scenery, the Orioles hope not only to rejuvenate a bat that had lost its might the last couple of seasons, but also to jolt Sosa out of the comfort level he had in Chicago, where he was too big, too powerful to be stopped.
Players with huge statures and huge egos who are with one team for as long as Sosa was with the Cubs often accumulate the "juice" to make their own rules. Pedro Martinez came and went pretty much as he pleased in Boston. Barry Bonds has his own recliner in the San Francisco clubhouse. In Chicago, Sosa played his music -- his tastes, reportedly, run from salsa and meringue to Whitney Houston -- on the Cubs' clubhouse stereo, usurping the right that traditionally belongs to that day's starting pitcher.
In Baltimore, Sosa will not have the same juice. Wisely, he made a point Wednesday to say the Orioles are "Miguel Tejada's team." He also trumpeted his "great" relationship with Mazzilli, whom he barely knew before Wednesday. Asked if Sosa could have a corrosive effect on the Orioles' clubhouse chemistry, Orioles Vice President Mike Flanagan shook his head.
"I see just the opposite happening. It's a fresh start for him," Flanagan said. "He's going to want to win his teammates over. He's going to want to win the fans over. I don't see any chance of that happening."
What the Orioles see happening is Sosa hitting cleanup in their lineup, blowing kisses and tapping his heart for the camera, bringing people to the yard and reveling in being Sammy -- the way he once did in Chicago so many, many years ago.
