I grew up in Detroit, back in the days when there were only 20 teams in baseball. The White Sox were rivals of my beloved Tigers and one team about whom, as kids, we harbored recurring fantasies of plane crashes and STD's. "Luis Aparicio" was an insult in my neighborhood, an epithet used with caution because you knew a fight was likely to ensue. We really didnt like the White Sox.
The calendar moved on and the American League adopted the Handicapped Pitchers Rule, which may have started my slide from youthful liberalism to adult conservatism. At any rate, eventually I moved away from Detroit to some cities where there were no baseball teams and found myself more and more often rooting for the National League whenever there was an inter-league game on television.
Eventually I ended up in Chicago, a town with two baseball teams. Bliss. I discovered that I was frequenting more Cubs games than Sox, not just because I lived on the north side but because the park was a slice of heaven and a National League park, at that. The fact that the Cubs - possessed by what can only be described as a loathsome loser ethos - play at Wrigley with irritating regularity is a negative but serves to make it easier to root for the visiting team. Thus, a National League fan was created.
Not that the White Sox, who often gave the Cubs a run for mediocrity, were much better than the Cubs. The Sox even built a new stadium, an homage to Soviet era architecture that looks like a flying saucer making crop-circles out of housing projects. Sitting in the very steep upper decks you don't dare staunch the blood dribbling from your nose with Kleenex because you know it will serve as a flag for the gang-bangers living in the projects just across the Dan Ryan, targeting the crowd and itching to take a shot. You also know that if they do take that shot you won't be able to stop yourself as you tumble down thirty rows of stairs and over the edge to your death on the field below. No wonder its called the Cell it has all the look and charm of a prison and many of the games have seemed like the Sox were playing sissy in the showers. At least most years my now-hapless Tigers could count on an easy game when they came to Chicago.
Maybe Reinsdorf has started to feel his own mortality and realizes that his future isnt limitless, but the Sox ownership seems to have made a great baseball decision: give one of their own a chance in the managers slot and start assembling a team of good, solid, under-valued players. This occasionally volatile crew of nearly-weres and havent-yets coalesced as a team under the truly spectacular trust and encouragement that their manager showed them, survived a classic post-All Star Game slump and showed the cool grit of champions. Redemption through victory, play for the team or die. Maglio who? Frank who?
The Astros are a better team than their record in the Series shows and most any of the games could have easily gone either way. The umpiring X-factor aside, the fact that none of the games DID go the other way isnt a measure of the Astros incapacity but, instead, a measure of the Sox heart and steely resolve. Little ball, indeed.
I'm not ready to call myself a Sox fan just yet, if for no reason other than to aggravate Scubina, my Southside Sweetie. Nonethless, this was a better team than anyone expected and, if they can be held together, they show the promise of becoming one of those historical anomolies: a great team without any great players. The Cell, however, will always look like a prison, no matter how much they try to dress it up.
The Curse of the Bambino was broken last year, the Black Sox curse was broken this year, the last great curse in baseball remains the Curse of the Goat on the Cubs. Could next year be the one where Hell freezes over? Nah, not while the Tribune owns the club.
Thanks, Sox, you done good. It was fun to watch.