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
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