The White Sox Are Losers And That's OK

Right now, it sucks to be a White Sox fan. We’re losing a lot of games. Like, a painful amount of contests we should be at least competitive in. We’re missing close calls, we’re getting beat up by teams that are absolute garbage, and there are a few players suiting up who probably know this is it. After this trial run in black, they’ll be selling cans of paint back in Dickwater, Montana where they first learned to throw a curveball. But, we have to do what we’ve always done: we endure. We’re used to the media dogging us and Cub fans jabbing with prideful pokes, pointing back to their sold out baseball mall. If you’re a White Sox fan, you’re used to getting kicked in the teeth - this is nothing new.

Trust the Process

Is it going to be this way forever? Sabermetrics tell us a much different story. We have to keep repeating the mantra as teams like the Houston Astros and Cubs did before us: trust the process. Going nuclear isn’t an overnight thing. We knew what we were signing up for when we laid our cards down and told Rick, Kenny, and Jerry that we’re all in on the rebuild. The A’s showed our weakness in the field with their monstrous sight lines. Minnesota once again has our number as their club isn’t much better, but good enough to continually sweep us time after time. Houston, well, that was a lesson on what a proper rebuild plays like. They beat our asses up and down the field in a manner that was straight from the script pages of The Bad News Bears.

Keep the Faith

Don’t lose faith and don’t stay home, Chicago. Go to the games, cheer for the guys you believe in and have as much fun as you can during a losing year. We’re probably going to lose over 100 games. That’s becoming omnipresent as the season scrapes by. We’ve only won NINE games so far. This thing ain’t gonna magically turn around and go all Major League, complete with Wild Thing and a smoking voodoo god. But, hey we have a ton of good beer, and there’s better food in the park than in most small towns. We likely see the worst White Sox team in history, and we will probably set a record of just how bad it can get. This was all by design, all a part of the process and all a part of Rick Hahn’s master plan. We’re playing for draft picks, and we likely will be next year, too. At least it’s not a pack of over the hill sluggers puffing their chests, desperate for that one last Magical Season, those years are long gone and thankfully so. Who the hell wants another scrap heap pickup like fat Manny Ramirez again? I certainly don’t.

Potential Phenoms Await

It sucks for them on the field, but take solace that Eloy Jimenez is looming. Flamethrower Michael Kopech is coming to town by July. Yoan Moncada is a little laid up right now, but better now than when we need him. Luis Robert is progressing nicely, and Tim Anderson is the best Shortstop in Chicago. When we’re ready, we’ll be able to pull the trigger on a veteran superstar; we’ll be able to get prime bullpen help, not just “some dude.” These guys are at least fun to watch, despite the record. I mean, the self Gatorade dump was internet gold.

A Tradition Worth Continuing

Since moving to down south a decade ago, I make a yearly pilgrimage to catch the White Sox in either Houston or Arlington. Typically, because the baseball gods smite me, the White Sox are out of town when I fly into Midway and head over to my mom’s place. This year though, they’re home when we come into town in June. I’m making my whole family go to the game. My mom, my dad, my brothers, wives and our kids, all told, there will be at least 11 of us in. I’m not expecting a miracle. A win would be nice, but you know what, I’m bringing my two little dudes for their first White Sox game in our park, the park I was born less than a mile away from, the park seated on the end of the neighborhood I was born into. Despite growing up in Texas, the White Sox are my kid's birthright. When they bounce back and are crushing teams left and right, just like the Houston Astros are all around us, we’ll be able to walk into those yearly games with our chins up, knowing those long summers way back when was worth the price of heartache.