Oh well. Expectations were so high last year that maybe expecting a good .350 Cubs team of old is just what the doctor ordered. To me, the Cubs had to get rid of him. Even if he improved his attitude, even if the players forgave him for leaving the last game of the season quite early, no press person would dare let them forget that distraction. He had to go. He got booed at the Cubs Convention, for God's sake.

Don't agree with that? Okay. Take a look at his numbers since 2001 below. Those declines are enough for me. So long, Sammy. Don't run into the factory on your way into right field at Camden.

I came across this story on ChicagoSports.com

Following a star's shadow
January 30, 2005, 8:59 PM CST

With Sammy Sosa packing his bags for Baltimore, Tribune sportswriters offer their lasting memories of the Cubs right fielder.

Paul Sullivan
A smile that said it all

On Aug. 7, 2003, I managed to get off the elevator on the wrong floor at Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego and wound up lost in the underbelly of the ballpark.

After wandering for a couple of minutes, I ran into a sweating Sammy Sosa, coming from a stint in the batting cage before that afternoon's game against the Padres. Sosa furrowed his brow and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to find my way to the clubhouse but had gotten lost. He shook his head, hoisted his bat over his shoulder and said, "Follow me."

Sosa and I once had a good relationship, but it had been all downhill since the corked-bat incident of the previous June. Sosa decided then that you were either with him or against him. Since I'd publicly doubted his story of "accidentally" putting the corked bat in the rack, I was on the wrong side of the Sammy line.

After some initial awkward silence on our trip to the clubhouse, Sosa asked me a question.

"How much does it cost to buy a newspaper?" he said.

"Why? You buying one?" I replied.

"I just was wondering," he said. "How much would it cost to buy a big paper, like the Chicago Tribune or the Sun-Times?"

I told him I had no idea, but that it would probably be in his price range if he got some investors together.

"You could buy your own paper and then fire all your critics," I said.

Sosa didn't say anything. He just smiled, got off the elevator and walked to the clubhouse.

In the seven years I've spent interviewing Sosa as Cubs beat reporter, he never said anything as revealing as that smile.

Sosa on the Decline   G HR RBI TB BB OBP SLG AVG 2001 160 64 160 425 116 .437 .737 .328 2002 150 49 108 330 103 .399 .594 .288 2003 137 40 103 286 62 .358 .553 .279 2004 126 35 80 247 56 .332 .517 .253 Source: MLB.com

Teddy Greenstein
A taste of Sosa's wrath

It was the 2000 Wrigley Field home opener, and I was about to get my first taste of Sammy Sosa's wrath.

Thirty minutes or so after an absurd Cubs victory--trailing 3-0 in the ninth, they rallied to beat the Braves--I spotted Sosa at his locker and went over to chat about the game.

Everyone was in good spirits, so I didn't hesitate to joke with Sosa that the official scorer had been kind in giving him a single on his fourth-inning grounder off Walt Weiss' glove.

"You don't think that was a hit?" Sosa asked.

I looked at him quizzically. Of course I didn't.

"You the official scorer, now, buddy?"

I thought he was joking, so I played along. Yeah, I told him. I report on the games and I decide what's an error.

"You want to take a hit away from me?"

"Sammy, I'm just kidding."

"I have no words for you," he replied, walking away.

It would get worse a few weeks later, when I pointed out in a story that Cubs batters were on pace for a franchise-record 1,223 strikeouts.

The headline read: "They're the kings of K's," and one of the accompanying photos showed Sosa whiffing.

"Nice article," he said, calling me a name not fit for a family newspaper, as he passed me in the dugout.

Later that day Sosa's buddy, Glenallen Hill, approached me to ask, "Why are you upsetting the big guy?"

Sosa and I eventually made up, but suffice it to say, he was never a big fan of my work. Sosa's favorite writer would kneel at his locker while interviewing him. It came to be known as the "genuflect position."

Bottom line, Sosa was a superstar who demanded to be treated like one. He wanted all the perks--a manager who never drops you in the lineup, teammates who fear crossing you, a guy to carry your boom box from one clubhouse to another, writers who praise your defense after an 0-for-5 day.

And now he has been granted a final wish: a one-way ticket out of town.

Fred Mitchell
'Welcome to my house'

It was December 2002, and Sammy Sosa decided at the last minute to invite 400 of his closest friends and family members to his palatial estate in La Romana, Dominican Republic, for a holiday soiree.

I was the only media member from Chicago present for the event, not because I am a friend or family member but because he somehow wanted to get the word back to Cubs fans in America that he is a generous, fun-loving guy.

Among the luminaries to grace his seven-bedroom, 10-bath mansion included the president of the Dominican Republic, Hipolito Mejia, and the country's vice president, Senora O.T. Bush.

"Welcome to my house!" Sosa exclaimed as he greeted each guest with a warm hug and engaging smile at the entrance to his estate.

His wife, Sonia, emerged stylishly dressed, making a grand entrance from the stairway of one of the many balconies on a typical warm and humid Caribbean night.

Sosa's four young children smiled and behaved in a mannerly fashion. His mother, Lucretia, beamed with delight as the salsa beat provided an enchanting, pulsating background.

"That's what it is all about--friendship and family. I'm a family man, and I never forget my people," Sosa said of the eclectic guest list that also included current and former Latin ballplayers and childhood friends.

Three of the most prominent bands in Latin America performed on a lighted stage in the Sosa family courtyard as waiters served glasses of $700-a-bottle champagne.

More than 25 armed bodyguards kept vigil over the gala as the country's most prominent politicians mingled with the guests. When bodyguards were caught unaware that a five-star fireworks show was emanating from the backyard and adjoining golf course behind Sosa's home, they flinched before rushing to protect their government officials.

As the evening wore down, Sosa told me that he was acutely aware of his critics.

"They have been trying to get to me for a long time," he said. "They don't know how to get to me. That's the only way they think they can get to me. No chance. I am sophisticated mentally."

Mike Downey
Seeing is believing

A funny thing happened in 2003 when I moved back to Chicago and looked for a place to live. Sammy was everywhere.

"Did you know Sammy Sosa has a place in this building?" a real estate agent would ask.

And the next place: "I think Sammy Sosa still owns a condo here."

And: "Know who lives on the top floor? Sosa."

My wife finally asked: "Is there more than one Sammy Sosa?"

A 90210 girl, she never had seen Sosa play. (A sheltered life.) So for our anniversary last June, I took her ... to a Cubs-Sox game on the South Side. (I have no North Side ticket contacts.)

We sat in right field. Sosa did not run out. He DH'd that day.

First time up, I said, "Watch this." And bam--Sammy hit a 450-foot home run, his 550th.

It was his first dinger since coming off the disabled list after a vicious, career-threatening sneeze.

Next time up, I said, "Now watch this."

And wham, Sammy again took Esteban Loaiza deep.

"How did you know he'd do that?" my wife asked.

I just said: "Been there, seen this."

Dave van Dyck
Conquering the world

Oh, the memories. Not just one, but a montage of Sammy Sosa snapshots. The good ones, mostly. The ones from 1998, mostly.

But there are the ones from the first 1990s White Sox days, of the scrawny, I-want-to-be-a-star-someday Sammy, a lonely kid working in frustration at Walt Hriniak's batting style, looking like he was jousting with windmills.

Then there are the ones from the Cubs days of 1998, of the super-sized, I-am-a-star Sammy, a happy-go-lucky guy working ferociously at joyously conquering the world.

There was the summer day in Wrigley Field when St. Louis' reluctant, scowling Mark McGwire was forced to hold a mini-press conference in a musky storage room, his back against the wall, his eyes squinting from the dust. And later there was the home-run-race night in St. Louis when a relaxed, smiling McGwire happily joined in a huge news conference on a podium. Sosa had successfully dragged along his behemoth buddy for the Sosa-inspired high-spirited chase of history.

There was the night of Sept. 8 in St. Louis when McGwire had won the race to 62 and Sosa hogged the highlight with a hug.

There were the afternoons in Wrigley Field when Sosa, with a glint in his eyes, pointed to his Flintstones vitamins housed on the top shelf of his locker, an obvious reference to the androstenedione found in McGwire's.

Maybe we were all intentionally na?ve. Maybe we all looked the other way in hoping the inevitable was not true. We all lived in the moment then, no one thinking far enough ahead to imagine an ending, much less this kind.

But even knowing what we know now and with those snapshots curling around the edges, even with the sulking Sammy of the last season, even with the banishment to Baltimore, the montage of memories consists of the happy days.

"No", he said, "the seat is empty."

"This is incredible," said the man. "Who in their right mind would have a seat like this for the Super Bowl, the biggest sport event in the world, and not use it?"

Somberly, the man says, "Well, the seat actually belongs to me. I was supposed to come here with my wife, but she passed away. This is the first Super Bowl we have not been together since we got married in 1967."

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that. That's terrible. But couldn't you find someone else - a friend or relative or even a neighbor to take the seat?"

The man shakes his head, "No. They're all at her funeral."