I remember in 1982 when the Milwaukee Brewers went to the World Series, my brother called me in Madison. They're dancing in the streets, he said. It was very cool. And I was a lifelong Brewers fan. A box-score checking, auto-show appearance stalking, listening on my transistor radio fan. And for perhaps the only time of my entire college career, I felt homesick.
My love affair with baseball ended abruptly with the 1994 baseball strike. I was so disillusioned with what I had always adored about sports in general: passion. All I could see was the petty and the greedy.
But after I moved to Chicago, I couldn't help but be wooed by the lovable loser Cubs. Wrigley Field reminded me of County Stadium; and the spirit of the Cubs appealed to my wounded heart ... since they couldn't win, they had to be in it for the game.
And so, I began to trust in this game. And that spirit, that very spirit that I used to feel and you're supposed to feel about sports came back big time when the White Sox looked like they might be a contender for world champion. The last few days when the Sox would be in a situation that would appear dire, they would do the impossible: they'd pull it out. When your team, a team in your city shows that they really are a winner, something starts to happen. It's a kind of patriotism, a kind of excitement, a kind of purity, an energy, something to think about outside of yourself and marvel at and go hey. whoo-hoo.
Cause you know, there's not a ton of stuff to say that about.
