It has transcended baseball to become a part of Americana.

 

Like the exploits of Mr. October and George Steinbrenner's volatile relationship with Billy Martin, Disco Demolition Night has been woven into the fabric of pop culture.

 

Monday marks the 25th anniversary of the most infamous promotion in baseball history. Time has smoothed over some of the more jagged memories — fires blazing in the Comiskey Park outfield, potentially lethal vinyl discs launched from the upper deck, the fourth forfeit in baseball history.

 

In retrospect, it is considered such a classic blunder that people can't help but chuckle at the recollection. But at the time, it was a Windy City disgrace. And those who were there still shake their head in disbelief. Few will forget that night.

 

After all, music historians generally refer to July 12, 1979, as the day disco died.

 

"I still hate disco," Mike Veeck was saying the other day. "Maybe it's because I couldn't dance."

 

Veeck, son of White Sox owner Bill Veeck, was the, uh, brains behind Disco Demolition Night. And if he wasn't doing much disco dancing back then, he was the one of the very few.

 

The No. 1 song of 1979, according to Billboard, was Anita Ward's "Ring My Bell." The Bee Gees won a Grammy a year earlier for their "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack while John Travolta showed off all the moves.

 

In fact, the public was nearing the saturation point. Radio stations had become disco-playing clones. Dance clubs all had the same music. The heavy, driving beat was virtually inescapable.

 

Meanwhile, the '79 White Sox were stumbling along. The team escaped relocation to Seattle when Bill Veeck agreed to become the new owner after no one else would. It was Veeck's second stint as Sox owner, and he made young Mike director of promotions.

 

But the team was operating on a shoestring. In 1979 it would finish in fifth place in the seven-team American League West and draw a paltry 1.28 million fans.

 

Bill Veeck, always the showman, remained convinced he could turn things around. It was Veeck who introduced the exploding scoreboard back in the 1950s, much to the chagrin of the more conservative owners.

 

That scoreboard prompted Casey Stengel and the New York Yankees, after a Mickey Mantle home run at Comiskey Park one night, to light sparklers and parade back and forth in front of the visitor's dugout.

 

So the elements for disaster were in place. The White Sox were desperate to draw. A local radio station, WLUP, was looking to cash in on the oversaturated disco market. One of the DJs, Steve Dahl, was planning to blow up disco records at a nearby mall. Mike Veeck heard about the stunt, which was generating some buzz, and made a phone call.

 

"Hey," he said. "Why don't you blow up those records at Comiskey Park?"

 

Uh-oh.

 

 

 

Jack Morris can sum up the proceedings of July 12, 1979, in two words.

 

"Absolutely insane."

 

Morris, then with the Detroit Tigers, was scheduled to pitch the second game of a doubleheader against the White Sox that day. But the game never was played.

 

"I remember the riot squad coming on the field," said Alan Trammell, former Tigers shortstop and current manager. "That was not a baseball crowd that night. That was a party type of crowd."

 

Said Morris: "They were already half-lit in batting practice. They were yelling 'Disco sucks! Disco Sucks!' "

 

The initial plan seemed fairly harmless. Admission to the Tigers-White Sox doubleheader was 98 cents for anyone who brought a disco record and donated it for demolition. The fans were to turn in their records as they entered the gate. And remember, these were the round, flat objects that spun on turntables before cassette tapes and then compact discs took over.

 

"Donna Summer was a big loser that night," Veeck recalled.

 

During an extended intermission between games, a large trash bin containing all the records was going to be wheeled to the outfield. Then the whole thing was going to be blown up.

 

Mike Veeck was sure the promotion could bring in 30,000 people — a huge draw. And 30,000 people did arrive. Then 30,000 more people arrived. Comiskey Park was packed, and there were 15,000 or so rowdies milling about in the parking lots.

 

"I threw my back out by patting myself on the back so hard," Veeck said.

 

But the euphoria didn't last.

 

"I knew it wasn't going to be my finest moment when I saw that first guy slide down the foul pole."

 

 

 

During the first game of the doubleheader, won easily by the Tigers, there were hints of the trouble to come.

 

"All our guys were wearing helmets in the outfield," Morris said. "They were throwing records from out of the stands."

 

Said Trammell: "They were hollering, 'Blow 'em up! Blow 'em up!' "

 

Plus, the pungent smoke rising from the stands didn't appear to be coming from Lucky Strikes or Marlboros. Far out, man.

 

Veeck quickly realized his first tactical error.

 

"We didn't think to frisk them," he said. "We didn't think they'd bring two records, one to get in and the other slipped under their clothes."

 

Soon after, the second tactical error became apparent.

 

"We didn't have nearly enough police,'' Veeck said. "We were geared for 35,000, which would have been pretty darn good."

 

The featured attraction brought down the house — almost literally.

 

"So they wheel out this box, maybe 12 by 12 by 12," said Morris. "And they had too much explosives in it. Too much dynamite. Stuff went flying everywhere. Then it was pandemonium. They were rushing onto the field. They tore up the pitching rubber. The 15,000 or 20,000 who couldn't get in started climbing the fences.

 

"And I was scheduled to pitch that second game."

 

Soon Mike and Bill Veeck and announcer Harry Caray were on the field pleading for order. No one was listening. The police could not get control of the situation. The Tigers retreated to the safety of the clubhouse.

 

"I didn't even get to warm up. They forfeited," Morris said.

 

When he got the news, he went to find manager Sparky Anderson.

 

"I asked Sparky if I got credit for the win," Morris said with a laugh. "He said, 'No, you've got to work for it.' "

 

Fires were set in the outfield. Anything that wasn't nailed down was torn up. As Trammell says, they weren't baseball fans out there but people looking for a wild party. Most probably didn't even really hate disco.

 

"Are you kidding?" Morris said. "Afterwards they all went to the discos down on Rush Street."

 

 

 

In the minor leagues, several teams have scheduled kitschy promotions to celebrate the 25th anniversary of Disco Demolition Night.

 

"It's amazing how the gods forgive," Mike Veeck said.

 

Veeck, then only 28, resigned after Disco Demolition Night and couldn't find a job in the major leagues for 20 years. No organization would go near him, and he battled alcohol for a number of years. But he earned a reputation as a showman while working in the minors, including a fabulously successful stint with the St. Paul Saints.

 

There were some great marketing successes along the way, such as "Field of Screams." That's when he wheeled out huge screens and showed horror movies to the fans after ballgames. Of course, there were some clunkers, too, such as Vasectomy Night. That one was canceled after a public outcry.

 

Eventually, he got back to the big leagues with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, Florida Marlins and Tigers. Today he owns a piece of six minor league teams and lives in South Carolina.

 

He is getting quite a few telephone calls these days from people wanting to talk about the 25th anniversary of Disco Demolition Night.

 

"I'm fine," he said. "I don't care. My attitude is that it has become part of a legend. I forgave myself when Rolling Stone used it to finish the first half of its series on the history of rock 'n' roll."

 

As for disco, it pretty much faded from the scene within a year. By the early '80s, club DJs were playing "house music" and creating odd, scratching sounds by dragging record albums backward and forward on the turntables. A lot of people weren't certain the new music was better.

 

Today, the mention of Disco Demolition Night almost always results in smiles all around. Maybe it's because those people recall themselves wearing leisure suits with wide-open shirts, and the whole era seemed so innocent.

 

Maybe the promotion wasn't so bad after all. Heck, there weren't any deaths that night.

 

Except maybe for disco.