No. 197 – Sorrow

Performer: Pink Floyd

Songwriter: David Gilmour

Original Release: A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Year: 1987

Definitive Version: Knebworth, 1990.

I might have mentioned at some point that A Moment Lapse of Reason was the soundtrack to the Summer of Love in 1988. But not all memories relate to events that took place then.

I never disliked Sorrow, but for some reason, it didn’t connect with me as much as the other songs until I watched MTV’s broadcast of the 1990 Knebworth festival in England. I was surprised that Pink Floyd, who closed the show, included this song along with obvious choices such as Comfortably Numb and Run Like Hell. And it didn’t hurt that it was a stellar version. Sorrow became a regular play after that.

Dave and I had experienced a great sorrow of our own at the complete sham that was the White Sox’s screwed-up ceremony to turn off the lights at the last night game at Comiskey Park. Fortunately, we still had the final game the next day to which we could look forward.

As I mentioned, we bought tickets for the Saturday night game, but Sunday was on the White Sox courtesy of Dave scamming them into giving us press credentials. At least we were actual members of the press even though we had no business being there.

The Saturday night had been chilly and overcast, but the Sunday day game was perfect—sunny and warm enough to not require a jacket. Dave and I dressed like the ink-stained wretches we were and headed to the park early. Heck, we had press credentials; we might as take advantage of that to the fullest.

We might have had press credentials, but that didn’t mean we had full access. For example, we definitely weren’t allowed into the press parking lot. A traffic cop dropped the hammer on Dave as he tried to turn in to the lot next to the stadium. “We’re press,” Dave insisted, showing her his credential. “You’re full of it,” she replied, obviously unimpressed. We parked somewhere else.

Once inside, our press credentials carried some weight. After Dave bought a program—I later regretted my decision not to do so because the pros in the pressbox didn’t buy programs—we headed down to the field … and went on.

I had been on the field of a Major League ballpark before, but it still was a thrill to be down on the field at Comiskey Park. I thought of all the players who played on that field. I also noted with a smile that I was treading the same sod where Steve Dahl killed disco in 1979 … and, look, there’s the Stever being interviewed.

I took a picture but drew no closer, because, well, about as many people were on the field as in the stands, and I couldn’t get any closer. If the White Sox handed out a press credential, they handed out 1,000 that day.

There was no organized pregame practice due to the press demands, so it was up to individual players to get in their warmups. A few milled about and some did some throwing in the outfield, which was roped off, but the rest stayed hidden in the (relative) safety of the clubhouses, where Dave and I—and most other press that day, probably—couldn’t go.

Like In Columbus a month before, Dave was the reporter; I was the photographer. Dave looked for anyone he could interview for the “story” he would write. (He did write a story, but let’s face it: We were there as fans, not working press.) It was easier for me to just start snapping away at anything that took my fancy, like, say, Ken Griffey Jr. posing for photos along the first base side.

Hello, what’s this going on? I walked closer as Junior was being tended to by a photographer and a handler just outside the press ropes only to have one of the guys turn and say, “Sorry, guys. This is a private shoot.” Umm … yeah … a private shoot in a very public location. Good luck with that.

I walked closer and now Junior called out, “Who are you with?” “The Flint Journal,” I shouted back. “OK, you’re fly.” Sorry, Mr. Handler Guy, but the future Hall of Famer’s approval carries a little more weight with me. I snapped a bunch of pictures. (Dave and I later discovered one of the photos from that “private shoot” on a Mother’s Cookie card.)

By now, it was about time to leave the field, and Dave still hadn’t found a proper subject when he noticed Scott Radinsky had roamed out of the safety of the clubhouse to the White Sox dugout. Dave grabbed him for a quick, surly interview. Success … I guess.

In addition to being denied access to the clubhouse, we also weren’t allowed in the pressbox. Our location was a crowded photo gondola on the third base side of the upper deck. Our chow was a premade sandwich and chips and a drink voucher. Well, how much did we pay for the tickets? Dave and I didn’t complain one whit.

It was a fun game, filled with all sorts of cool pageantry, like Styx singing Take Me Out to the Ball Game during the seventh-inning stretch. No one homered, although Carlton Fisk, who received a huge ovation in what likely was his final at bat at the old ballpark (it was), admitted later he tried like hell to hit one that time up. We got to see Ken Jr. play beside his father, Ken Sr. (Junior hadn’t played the night before.) And appropriately enough, the White Sox won, with Frank Thomas driving in the tying run and scoring the eventual winning run.

Of course, there’s no ceremonial occasion that Jerry Reinsdorf couldn’t ruin. Before the game, Reinsdorf made a point to say that any vandalism of the stadium soon to go under the wrecking ball would be punished to the fullest extent … because Reinsdorf was going to sell off the scraps. Real nice. (When he much later announced that the money would go to charity, that calmed the grousing only somewhat.)

Sure enough, the second Harold Reynolds’ ground out hit Steve Lyons’ mitt, the gates in center field opened up, and half the Chicago police force stormed out—half on horseback—to ring the field in a show of force. Just in case anyone didn’t get the hint, they backed two paddy wagons out into center field and opened the doors. Subtle. Besides, it made it difficult for the White Sox players to make one final tour of the field, although they did, waving and tossing up souvenirs to the fans. Thanks, again, Jerry.

Still, nothing could put a damper on the day’s events. Dave filed his story from the gondola, and before we left, we bowed to fandom and had another member of the less esteemed press take our picture with the outfield bleachers in the background. Like one fan’s sign said, “Years from now we’ll say we wuz here.”

It was a primo scam—perhaps me and Dave’s finest adventure considering the gravity of the event and the activities of the day before (good ol’ No. 266). And in a triumph of civil disobedience, a chip of Comiskey Park that had meticulously been chipped away during the game eluded the cops and ended up in my shadow box back in Grand Blanc.