"ANYBODY CAN BE BEAT!" - Bart Scott

Sunday, August 28, 2011

A South Side Love Story, Part 1


Somewhere in the midst of the White Sox's near-flawless victory over the Texas Rangers last Sunday, I realized all the signs were there.

The sleepless nights. The sudden bouts of giddiness after a win, and the crushing depression after a loss. The declarations that I was over it, I was over the team and over the season, only to return a few wins later as if nothing had changed.

The 2011 Chicago White Sox have been playing me. I'm in a relationship with this team, and I'm being played.

 A teenage love
It would be wrong to say the relationship started this season. After all, I fell in love with the Sox a long time ago. There were prettier girls out there when I made my choice in 1996. The Yankees were on the cusp of returning to greatness. Seattle had the young stars Griffey and A-Rod, and of course, everyone in Chicago loved Sammy and the Cubs. But, being the logical mind I am, I lived on the South Side and that meant I had to be a White Sox fan. There was no other choice, I told myself.
I had to choose her.
The late '90s Sox mirrored my late '90s love life: success was non-existent. Frank Thomas was slowing down after his MVP seasons, and young Ray Durham provided a spark, but there was a lousy manager in place and Jamie Navarro (remember him?) led the pitching staff.

In 1997, the only major White Sox achievement was Mike Caruso (remember him too?) being the toughest player to strike out.

There were no “salad days” with those White Sox.

In 2000, it seemed my days of absorbing painful losses via AM radio had come to an end. The Big Hurt had a resurgent year, James Baldwin lit up the league in the second half of the season (as always), and young sluggers Magglio Ordonez and Paul Konerko catapulted the Sox into the postseason.

Imagine the girl (or guy) of your dreams, after weeks of you buying them flowers, talking to them in the hallway and doing everything but writing them acoustic guitar songs, finally agrees to go out with you on a Friday. You're ecstatic, you're picking out clothes and telling everyone you know that it's finally your moment.
At the restaurant, everything's going well. You're talking, laughing and the champagne is ready on ice in the back. Then she gets a phone call: she's been called out of town on an emergency. For three months. And you're left sitting there with a half-empty plate and a bottle of slowly-warming bubbly.
That was the 2000 White Sox. I was 12 years old and knew in my heart we were going to the ship, but a three-game sweep at the hands of the Mariners proved me young and foolish.

No salad days.

 Finally!

 I kept a journal the summer of 2004 on the advice of my mom. Looking back at it, every entry was about the Sox's chances at the postseason. They were five and a half games behind the Twins at the end of August and I wrote, “First place is there for the taking—if they want it.”

They didn't want it, of course. The Twins won the division in convincing fashion.

I had told myself a long time ago that I would never leave the White Sox. But the relationship was becoming too one-sided. My girl had dangled me on a string a bit too long. It might be time to find another.

Then 2005 rolled around.

In retrospect, it was like any other love jones. You hope beyond belief for the girl to come around until finally, you wise up and let it go. Then, you get the phone call: "Hey, let's hang out." 2005 was like my dream girl showing up at my door wanting to kick it every single day, and I never got tired of seeing her. The only days I dreaded were off-days, and even then, I knew she'd be around the next day. The White Sox were finally winning, and I could enjoy it.

The salad days had finally come.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

JS

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

The Day the Monsters Died

In the lexicon of Chicago sports, there are many words that will draw the ire of fans. "Choke", for example. "Tanking", "fire sale", "rebuilding", "Wirtz" and "swoon" are some other good ones. Words that will have a Chicago sports fans grumbling and cursing under their breath. But there is (or should be) one word that turns fans into homicidal maniacs.

Mediocre.

This is what the 2011-12 Chicago Bears are giving us. I say, enough's enough.

The Summer of Suffering

The 1980s were bad enough. Hair was too long, clothes were too bright, cars were too boxy. Timothy Dalton was James Bond and Ronald Reagan was president. Add to that a significant labor lockout, the lowlight of replacement players and the rise and fall of the United States Football League, and you have a fairly lousy few years for the NFL.

It's no wonder that the just-ended NFL lockout received so much coverage. Even in the Information Age, where Maurice Jones-Drew's latest tweet is broken down and analyzed on SportsCenter six times in an hour, the lockout was big news. "There might not be a football season," thought millions of Americans. "What's going to happen to my Sunday? My jerseys? My fantasy football league, my office pool?"

You could actually hear husbands everywhere gritting their teeth at the thought of having conversations with their wives on Sunday afternoons. The tension was palpable.

But after weeks of "will they, won't they" on a new collective bargaining agreement, the players and owners finally settled their differences, divided up the tens of millions of dollars on the table and agreed to go back to work. And instead of being frustrated that these millionaires had put them on a tightrope for months, fans were placated. Scratch that, they were relieved.

(Side note: How sobering is it to compare the lockout talks with the squabble in Congress over the American debt? Just think: if Jerry Jones donated about half his assets and Cowboys Stadium to the government, we wouldn't have to raise the debt ceiling.)

I admit, I wanted to see how the country would react to a cancelled football season. Would they finally revolt against outlandish ticket prices and bloated contracts, a la Chad Dukes in his tirade against the Washington Redskins?

We'll never know. Instead, everyone will go back to their merry lives of planning for office pools and fantasy football leagues.

But not me.

Middling on the Midway

I grew up in the '90s in Chicago, which meant basketball was king and everything else took a backseat. Even then, the Bears were damn near an afterthought. While Brett Favre was breaking records and winning a Super Bowl in Green Bay, the Bears were moving backwards. To put it in perspective, from the end of the Ditka Era in 1992 to the hiring of Lovie Smith in 2003, the Bears were 76-103 and made the playoffs twice.

The Packers in the same span were 50 games over .500, won the Super Bowl, only missed the playoffs three times and never had a losing season. Never mind the whole "the Bears have had 50 million quarterbacks during the time Favre was in Green Bay" stat.

It's not fair that I have to look back to my childhood and say that I remember watching Erik Kramer throw touchdown passes. Or that our best offensive weapon for two years was Paul Edinger. Or that two of three "McN" QBs were on the board and we took Cade instead of Donovan or Steve.

Then, it was Michael McCaskey making stagnant hiring and drafting choices. Then it was Ted Phillips. Now, it's Jerry Angelo.

In the words of KRS-One, when's it going to stop?

Fan on strike

When unions were first starting out, it was dangerous for workers to picket. The owners would resort to violent tactics, bringing in dogs, scabs and strike busters to demoralize their employees. Now that's illegal, and even if it was, I highly doubt any NFL players would be going hungry while they weren't playing (Latrell Sprewell, stand up!). But since the fans are the ones who got shafted with this deal, I say we're the ones who should show our displeasure. How so, you ask?

Boycott the season.

Don't watch a single game. Don't follow the stats. Don't go to a game, don't watch a game, don't even think about professional football. I'm so serious about this, I'm encouraging people to watch college football instead. Do whatever you have to in order to show the NFL they aren't allowed to quibble over stacks of money while the financial sector is rotting and fans are wondering if there will be a season.

For Chicago, boycott the Bears to show that Roy Williams and Matt Spaeth aren't the answer. Picket because the product on the field doesn't match the prices on the tickets. Turn your backs because once-majestic Soldier Field is now a blight on the lakefront, a running joke for the Skip Bayless' of the world.

Most of all, boycott the Bears so Jerry Angelo can change his business cards to "self-employed".

Oh, and the NBA is on notice, too. I'm looking at you, David Stern.

See you on the picket line.

JS