THE BAD BOY TREATMENT

Mario Russo

This upcoming Saturday will officially mark the two year anniversary of Tim Anderson’s sensational moment at the MLB’s inaugural ‘Field of Dreams’ game. When the final at-bat in an epic back-and-forth clash between two of the league’s historic franchises proved to be the loudest. The most memorable. A living sentiment of what at least at the time, appeared to mark the takeover of a new generation.

Already 1-4 on the night with an RBI double in the third, Anderson slowly inched towards the batter's box. His side, trailing the New York Yankees by a lonesome run with just a pair of outs left to play with. The White Sox’s go ahead runner Seby Zavala began a conservative lead-off at first base as Anderson readied himself for Zack Britton’s first pitch.

His head bobbed to the beat of rap music blaring in the background, simultaneously digging his back foot deeper and deeper into the right side of the batter’s box. The Chicago shortstop looked calm. Controlled even. Ready to become the show’s main attraction and relish in all its glory.

A first-pitch sinker floated out of the left hand of Britton. Destined for the bottom left corner of the zone, the ball dropped to the outer middle of the plate in a hurry and met the thwarting bat of Anderson in the process.

In a split-second, red stitches twisted and twirled throughout the dark Iowa sky, getting closer and closer to the right-field wall before a field of corn and crop stood in its way. Anderson homered, walked things off and began rounding the bases, slicing his hands below his throat to let teammates, opponents and fans know the game was over.

That he was the reason why, him and only him getting it done in the middle of a cornfield.

Iconic.

That night, Anderson stood atop the baseball world, letting his traditional and trademark bat-flip fall where it may. The league’s irresistible bad-boy picked up his elusive Hollywood ending, one responsible for shaking the boundaries of baseball for the foreseeable future. At last, a watershed moment propelling forward an era of swagger, confidence and ultra ego.

Those disgusted by Anderson’s moxy, his ego, his swagger, were left speechless. It was the perfect storm for the bad boy. Chaos and all.

Soon, disarray became the homely destination for Anderson, using the mayhem around him to build up his brand and boost his stock. Becoming that guy by conquering it all while his long lineup of haters - many being bat-flip barracaders as well - continued to multiply. Waiting patiently at Anderson’s doorstep for a slip-up, perhaps a performative decline.

An egotistic embarrassment of some sort.

That reckoning was poetically delivered this past weekend in a dust-up between Anderson and Cleveland Guardians third baseman Jose Ramirez. Tempers flared following Ramirez’s slide into second base, punches were thrown shortly after between himself and the White Sox’s middle infielder.

The baseball gods could not have drawn up a better script for Anderson’s ego to thrive. A Saturday night fight featuring one of the most respected players of this generation and the heretic shortstop from the Southside. A Hollywood ending even better tailored for Anderson than his walk-off win nearly two years in the rearview mirror. Land a blow, even better: a knockout blow, and you will once again be revered as that guy.

Anderson threw down his glove, tossed up his hands and readied himself for the moment. This time around, he looked unhinged, anxious and overwrought. Far from the collective disposition that wrote headlines a pair of years ago. His face, now beaming of sweat in the Cleveland night, shadowed a look of desperation that suggested he needed this moment rather than wanted it.

That it hasn't come in quite some time, and may never will again.

Staring down Ramirez, Anderson unleashed a pair of rapid right-hand hooks, coming up with just as many near misses on the Guardians’ third baseman. As he reached for the back-door left, the wailing fists of Ramirez connected with the vulnerable chin of Anderson, sending the White Sox’s shortstop falling to the dirt. The crowd at Progressive Field let out their cherished remarks in a deafening tone of exaltation.

A sound incomparable to the rapture within the ‘Tim Anderson hate club’ and a contingent that finally witnessed the bad boy get beat.

Anderson’s fight with tradition and all that is loved and respected in today’s game finally caught up to him Saturday night. His ego overtook him as it had done so many times before. Whether he won the tilt with Ramirez or not, he would still be tangled up in the current malcontent mess that has followed him around over the last handful of years.

If he sent Ramirez flailing towards the dirty canvas last weekend, he would be forever remembered as that guy. The one responsible for knocking down the game’s most beloved player on national television. An identity even more repulsive than the one he’s been rolling with all throughout his career.

So often has Anderson found himself paddling through pandemonium, picking up fights to come out on top of, and reaping the popularity awards that come with it. The bad boy in every good Hollywood movie gets their teeth knocked in at some point, playing the rebel comes with a cost after all.

Yet unlike all the other commotion the 30-year old has found himself submerged in throughout his seven-year career, this frenzy on the field ultimately feels like the last. Perhaps, the bottom of the bedlam barrel that Anderson has been clawing at since early April to help flip the tide on his worst season to date.

Last Saturday, Anderson was down for the count as he struggled to soberly pick himself up behind the second base bag. Wobbling and buckling as he attempted to rejoin the madness in which he orchestrated.

As he tried to fight off the influx of teammates holding him back - those protecting not just their teammate’s ego, but underlying health - that look of desperation gripped upon the face of Anderson once more. Despondency and despair drooped across his nose, his eyes, that throbbing chin, insinuating to everyone around him that very same sentiment he felt while trotting the bases way back when in Iowa: ‘It’s Over.’

His antics, his dissatisfaction with tradition. Even his constant grasp for dramatic moments, It’s all over. The pieces are scattered, the puzzle, perhaps stained with the blood from Anderson’s chin. A new identity, even just a new way of going about playing the game, is entirely imminent for Anderson.

A full makeover seems bleak, even harder to imagine Anderson would be the one to kickstart the cause, and ultimately follow through with this level of change. He’s out of strikes, punches and maybe even a loose bottom tooth. Winning so much, so quickly, and watching it fall ever so slowly, a tormented nosedive for the athlete to be sure.

Forever it’s been Anderson’s world and we - the people watching his successes from a distance - were always the one’s living in it. On one side, basking in the prominence with him as others continued to sharpen their spears of disrelish towards him.

It was always love-hate with Anderson, until this past weekend when everything - and everyone - made their relationship a one-way street, a road lined with detesting houses and loathing lawns. Paving his own path, perhaps a new one, is what Anderson has done best throughout his career, and will have to do in order to balance the strong sentiments that are currently being thrusted towards him.

Which Anderson we will see however, remains the big question. It may even go unanswered through the second half of the season as well, with the White Sox undergoing one of the biggest year-to-year fallouts in the last decade.

Yet in the middle of it all, Anderson got his long-overdue taste of humble pie. The fact that it was shoved in his face rather than served will forever circle back to his constant demand for the spotlight. The chaos. The fuel for his self-image, and the one that sent his engine sputtering to the ground.

This is the end of the line for Tim Anderson, the rock bottom that his disappointing season had promised would be found. This is the bad-boy treatment gone wrong, or maybe it’s just the full evolution that causes this level of resentment.

Anderson’s Hollywood role finally caught up to him. Luckily for him, everyone loves a good comeback story here and there.

Even if it is the bad guy.