I am a Sox fan. That’s the Chicago White Sox, by the way—not that other team from Boston. I feel I needed to make that clear so that the next time you hear someone talking about the Sox, you’ll know who they’re talking about.
I am a Sox fan—not a Cubs fan. Anyone from Chicago can tell you the two are mutually exclusive. I became a Sox fan when, as a boy, I got caught up in the thrill of a winning baseball team in Chicago—the Cubs. Throughout the summer of 1969, I watched every game on TV that my greedy little eyes could track down.
I started falling in love with the game of baseball at the same time that I was exposed to the consensus “best team in the National League,” running away with the pennant. Everything was rosy and wonderful.
And then, inexplicably, my team, the team I had revered all summer (remember how long summers were to a kid?), started losing.
And losing.
And losing—and that insurmountable first place lead evaporated like a puddle in a summer afternoon—and so did all my enthusiasm. The Cubs plummeted that summer and it was then that I made a promise to myself that I would never watch another Cubs game again—a promise I’ve regretfully broken.
As I turned my back on that team from the National League, I discovered that another team played baseball in Chicago—the White Sox. Perhaps, I thought, there was still a chance for me to recover from my Cubs induced psychological scars. Perhaps one day I could again look forward to watching a baseball game.
I was slow to recover, but somehow I knew that the new team I was watching wouldn’t break my heart.
Through the next few years I began to notice differences between Sox fans and Cubs fans. Sox fans went to the park to watch the game. Cubs fans went to hang out at the bars, get drunk, and soak up the atmosphere. Sox fans tried to get a message across to their team: If the Sox put a hard-playing, good team on the field, they showed their support by filling up the park. And if the Sox put a lousy team on the field, the fans showed their dissatisfaction by refusing to show up.
Cubs fans, on the other hand, filled Wrigley Field even if they were the worst team in baseball—which they frequently were. Now some may call that kind of behavior loyal, but I call it being stupid. Cubs fans never seemed to demand a better team and so they seldom got one.
The other difference I’ve noticed between Sox fans and Cubs fans is that Sox fans really don’t like Cubs fans. Cubs fans, on the other hand, don’t seem to care one way or another. They’re just going to keep on loving their “loveable losers” no matter what.
But not to worry—there’s still hope for all of you Cubs fans out there. In another century or two, when you finally win a World Series, the healing can begin.
I’m just glad that my recovery began in 1969.
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