I have a White Sox tattoo. I have five jerseys. I used to hit at least 20+ games a season. I’ve said in multiple pieces that I’ll be cremated wearing a Sox cap when I croak. I’ve searched for a 90’s satin Starter jacket like a holy grail. And now, as the 2023 season looms, I am out of f*#*$ to give.
Blame general apathy, blame picking up Tony LaRussa for a long bathtub fart of a reunion with the team, blame letting Carlos Rodon walk. I just – don’t care. I guess it’s the general malaise of over being disappointed. It’s tiring being a homer. I want them to win, but I also want to not feel like looking into the future is like wondering what the depths of the abyss is – what monsters lurk there? What baseball sins may we atone for at the foot of the hot dog that ran through the garden at Johnny’s on 35th.
Among the White Sox faithful, there’s this general feeling of “blah”, that the rescue squad is never coming, that what’s on the field is just that – status quo, without firepower when the ramparts are broken by out-of-town invaders with stronger wood and tougher leather. And this scenario is exhausting. After a few years of the world eating a collective shit sandwich, baseball seems like a good way to escape inflation, mass shootings, a proxy war, and general fuckery from all sides, but surprise folks, we’re left holding the bag on our emotional well being because we’re not getting any dingers slapped over the fence or more than one hot shot throwing strikes, we’re stuck in neutral, and it sucks.
The White Sox never go after the big names. Verlander, Judge, Boggarts, etc., all got new teams, and who did Hahn pull out of the miasma? Mike Cleavenger. Kenny Williams-style. They missed out on Manny Machado for a year’s worth of cash, same with Bryce Harper, same with others they were supposedly after.
The front office has signed guys like Liam Hendricks and built up that core. I’ve lost faith that Yoan Moncada is worth that paycheck. Yaz Grandal has hit his wall, and they let the heart and soul of the team, Jose Abreu, boogie down to Houston. The team needed to be shaken up, and there will always be some drama in the offseason. Andrew Vaughn is ready to go full-time; it’s a part of the game. But as exciting as it is to get a new coach, he’s still not exactly signing a premier right fielder. Instead, they’re getting linked to Nelson Cruz – who’s 42.
Just as the White Sox were starting to feel like they were catching up to the Cubs in terms of cultural impact, they go back in the toilet, back to figuring out how to make a roster out of trades and guys on the cheap looking for a second shot, which is textbook White Sox. The winter meetings came and went, and nothing happened. Being a White Sox fan can feel like Lucy holding the football for Charlie Brown – just as we think we’re about to connect, someone’s back, flat on their back. Meanwhile, San Diego, the fourth most prominent team in California, is building a roster of All-Star players that’s better on paper than the Dodgers.
Chicago is the third-largest market in the country; the Dodgers, Mets, and Yankees continually spend to reflect their markets. What do the Southsiders do? Not even sniff at the idea of bringing in a guy like Judge. It’s not even about the value and worth; they’re not even trying, and trying isn’t worth much if you’re continually watching the playoffs from the couch with a Miller Lite in hand and a whole lot of nothing to show for a bad season, again.
Some prognosticators will bellow that the White Sox had a weird off-season. Ok. That’s one answer against many. Whatever the general malaise is, it’s a flavor that doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel competitive and feels like we’re in for a letdown, despite whatever optimistic viewpoints are left in my bottle of Jameson.
Being cheap isn’t a working-class reflection, which the owners of both teams love to laud, that buying players doesn’t win championships. Looking at the Dodgers, Astros, and everyone else in the playoffs over the last few seasons, plenty of teams signed impact players, and guess who’s hinting he wants to split Chicago now? Tim Anderson, the other blue-chip player who’s representative of the fan base. It looks like Chicago will have another summer of empty seats on hot days, and who’s to blame? I dunno. They’re probably sitting in a leather chair somewhere, wondering if Nolan Ryan feels like suiting up for a few briskets. Jerry can afford that. To wear the cap is an exercise in frustration and self-flagellation, but what the hell are ya gonna do? Guess celebrate that brisket coming off the smoke. Don’t invite Robin Ventura to the bbq, though.
