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TBC
White Sox VerSuS CubS
Dredging deep into the heart and mind of a Chicago baseball nut.
worDs: J.r. NelsoN IllustratIoN: DoNNIe Bauer (www.myDBmeDIa.Com)
October 27, 2004. The Beachwood Inn, a bar on
Chicago’s near Westside, is full of patrons, but
eerily quiet. There is a once-in-a-century spectacular
lunar eclipse in the warm night sky and
the Boston Red Sox, the most famously hardluck
team in the annals of sport, is about to win
the World Series for the first time in 86 years.
As St. Louis Cardinals shortstop Edgar Renteria
grounds into the final out and the Boston players
start whooping and celebrating in the infield,
nobody in the Beachwood has much of anything
to say. “Huh,” one of the bartenders opines. “Did
you see that moon tonight?”
Since time immemorial, the annual Chicago
baseball ritual has been watching somebody else
play in, and win, the World Series. The Chicago
White Sox haven’t appeared in the fall classic
since 1959, and were last world champions in
1917. The Chicago Cubs played in the 1945
World Series and have yet to return. Their last
world title was in 1908. The only thing that truly
connects these two franchises is their relative
geography and utter lack of success. Other than
that, they could hardly be more different.
The Cubs play in the friendly confines of
Wrigley Field, an ancient and storied park on
Chicago’s Northside. Old-timey ambience, ivycovered
walls and beery sell-out crowds make it
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one of the city’s most popular tourist attractions.
Wrigley draws plenty of dentist/lawyer yuppie
dudes and their scantily clad ladyfriends and
because the tickets are more expensive, especially
for the good seats, they’re usually the folks you
see on TV.
The White Sox home is U.S. Cellular Field, a
rather drably designed stadium where, if sitting
in the upper deck and the stiflingly polluted summer
air isn’t too thick, one can see the notorious
Robert Taylor Homes standing out across the
Dan Ryan Expressway. It can be argued that the
White Sox have a much larger black and Hispanic
fan base than the Cubs because they draw so
much support from the largely black Southside.
Caucasian White Sox fans from the surrounding
neighborhoods tend to be one of two groups:
auto mechanics or construction workers out to
get drunk, or zealous baseball fanatics out to
get drunk. The vibe of the place can be nasty.
During a game two seasons ago, a father/son duo
jumped out of the stands and attacked a Kansas
City Royals coach right out on the field. A scant
few weeks later another disgruntled fan emerged
from the crowd to tackle the umpire.
Chicago baseball has led me to renounce God.
I wish that was a joke, but you weren’t there in
‘84 to see Steve Garvey run around the basepaths
with his fist in the air while mighty Cubs hurler
Lee Smith could only dig at the mound with his
huge cleats in defeat and disbelief. I was inconsolable
and 10 years old, and my Mom put me to
bed crying like an infant; from that tearful night
forward, The Lord and I just didn’t see eye to
eye.
It’s the great baseball riddle: how could my
team lose? I have forsaken members of my own
family (Uncle Stu, why be a Cardinals fan? Pujols
is a bum and you have terminal brainfog from
pounding too much Busch!). I have taunted
strangers on Chicago streets wearing Yankees
hats from a moving car. “Hey Dame Dash,” I lustily
shouted once, “What borough are you from?”
This fuels my unquenchable and unceasing
Yankee-based eruptions of jealousy. My utter
awe at their winning providence turns my heart
into fire every summer, even when I’m trying
to do normal person things like eat deep-fried
Twinkies and shop for toilet paper and feel up
some rump to the Crooklyn Clan on Friday night.
But tonight was good. Final score: Sox 2-Yanks 1
in the Bronx. The White Sox still have the best
record in the bigs. Who knows. Maybe this is our
year?
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