The Chicago White Sox are resting a couple days while they find out if they play the New York Yankees or the Los Angeles Angels for their league championship. The next series begins this Tuesday, and Earl and I will be there. Not literally at the stadium, but literally in front of out television set, hoping – maybe even praying – for a miracle.
It’s been eighty-eight years since the White Sox won a World Series; and, while the team members are resting, the Chicago media is indulging in the equivalent of a feeding frenzy. It started immediately after the White Sox beat the Red Sox Friday night. By Saturday morning, the front pages of both local papers were screaming of the Sox-cess. I don’t know how they got it all written, printed, and distributed in under twelve hours; but they did.
Since then, any columnist with a regular platform has given his or her opinion about the White Sox. The Sunday paper is full of it, with special poster pull-outs, reprints of previous articles, and new ones added to the heap.
I’m a fair weather sport fan; I’m also a pretty ignorant one too. But every once in a while, when my home team is winning big, I become engaged in the spectacle and root my heart out as much as any long-suffering follower. In those few days, I cram the names of the players, the broad rules of the game, and even some of the more subtle plays into my head. This is one of those times. Go Sox!
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