Like Dick Allen’s bat, death of the White Sox standout hits hard

The 1972 Chicago White Sox wore a home uniform of white with red pinstripes, with the scripted “Sox” logo on the left chest of the zip-up jersey and the player’s number on the right side. The pants were secured by a red leather belt — a RED LEATHER BELT.

Not everyone could pull off that look, but Dick Allen owned it. Dick Allen sported that uniform in a candid dugout shot on the cover of the June 12, 1972, Sports Illustrated, cigarette dangling from his lips, juggling three baseballs, the caption reading: “Season of Surprises. Chicago’s Dick Allen Juggles His Image.”

Chicago was the fourth stop in four years for the mercurial Allen, after he had worn out his welcome in Philadelphia and had spent one season each with the Cardinals and the Dodgers before being traded to the White Sox for Tommy John prior to the 1972 season. He quickly became a fan favorite at old Comiskey Park on the South Side, racking up MVP numbers and hitting line drive home runs that would take your breath away. Allen’s at-bats were so special the fans would even stand and applaud when he struck out, because his swings were so mighty it felt as if he had cooled the thickest and hottest summer air.

Richard Anthony Allen, who died Monday at 78 after a long illness, played just three years with the Sox, but he was and always will be one of my favorite players, thanks to his mighty bat and his singularly unique style, from wearing a helmet in the field (a habit he started when the fans in Philadelphia started throwing batteries, actual batteries, at his head). He would sometimes draw the word “BOO” in the infield sand when he was being booed, and he spelled out “MOM” on Mother’s Day.

On a Wednesday afternoon in August of 1972, I was 12 years old and in the Comiskey Park center field bleachers, where the great Harry Caray was doing a series of broadcasts smack dab in the middle of the stands. When Allen smacked a prodigious drive that cleared the 440-foot sign in center field and landed in the bleachers, not far from Harry’s makeshift booth, Caray exclaimed, “It hit a fan’s hands, right in front of me. Never has a ball been hit any farther. Holy cow!”

A couple of decades later, I had the chance to meet Dick Allen and we spent an afternoon drinking Bloody Marys and talking baseball at the old Pump Room in Chicago. He was affable and open, mellowed by the years. It’s a memory I’ll always treasure.

Dick Allen was one of a kind, and his three years in a White Sox uniform are woven into my childhood baseball memories. My, how he could hit.