A South Side Love Story, Part 2

"See the worst thing they can give guys like you, Shane, is hope."

The arrival of September has brought the typical signs of the coming fall. Bleary-eyed students walk to their early classes. Halloween candy is on-sale obscenely early, and a 90-degree heat wave in Peoria marks summer's last stand.

The other common signs of September are also apparent: the Cubs are already looking forward to next year, the Bears are doing something or other in preseason (NOT UNTIL JERRY'S GONE!), and my beloved White Sox are in the thick of the chase for the AL Central title.

Were in the thick of the division race, I should say.

A three-game shellacking at the hands of the Tigers pushed all but the most starry-eyed of Sox fans off the bandwagon. Which means, of course, your resident romantic is still driving the bus.

Make a choice, already

It's not like the Sox have been the popular pick to make a bold move this season. Even when they were only 5.5 games out of the lead, none of ESPN's experts were high on them to catch the Tigers. That was to be expected, since everyone had actually watched them play more inconsistently than the Bad-News Bears.

The Sox aren't a juggernaut. They aren't overachieving. In fact, they aren't underachieving. It's more drastic than that. They're downright flighty.

Remember the girls (or even guys, I know women are reading this as well) you've dated who couldn't ever make a simple decision? The ones who'd need a pro-con list to decide between McDonald's and Wendy's? That's the White Sox.

There's no other way to describe a team that gets swept in a critical late-season series (losing the final game by 13 runs), then sweeps a doubleheader the very next day against the team that has been the bane of their existence all season.

On the road, no less.

Add in the fact that the struggling rookie pitcher who was picked up at the trade deadline came six outs within a perfect game in the nightcap, and you have the 2011 Chicago White Sox.

McDonald's or Wendy's, McDonald's or Wendy's. Why don't you pick?

Optimism hurts

The Indians are feeling the pain, too. The Tribe moved into second place after the White Sox's debacle of a weekend and probably thought they had a chance. But they took a sweep from the Bengals as well, culminating a "snatching-defeat-from-the-jaws-of-victory" loss this afternoon. Sounds familiar, right?

I have a good friend that an Indians fan, and I'm wondering if he's thinking the same thing I am: Maybe it's not us. Maybe the Tigers are just that good. After all, they have Justin Verlander (who is probably a hologram) and a video game-type lineup. Even Brandon Inge is hitting and I think I saw some of the duct tape peeling off his knees.

Maybe the Tigers are just that good.

For the Sox, the past five days can be described this way:

Friday: Girl calls: "Hey, I want to talk." "What about?" "...About us."
Saturday: (First seven innings) "Listen, I really think you're a great guy and I've loved the time we've spent together...(last two innings)...that's why I think we should break up."
Sunday: Spend day crying in the house watching "Brian's Song" to fend off the questions of why you're crying.
Monday-Tuesday: Phone rings. "Hello?" "Hey, sorry about what I said. I think I was making a mistake. Do you want to meet up somewhere?"

It wouldn't be fair to say any coherent person would say no. There have been too many R&B hits about this very situation. However, I think I'd be smart enough to say no when the girl called me.

But this isn't a relationship. This is baseball.

So for the last two weeks of the 2011 season, I'm going to watch every single White Sox game and hope feverishly that the boys can pull out a miracle finish. Hope the Tigers stumble and fall.

This time, I'm hoping my girl doesn't play me for a fool.

See you in the cheap seats.

JS

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