I am rendered speachless about the White Sox. This is the greatest thing ever. Besides my inevitable romantic relationship with Kelly Clarkson, or Mandy Moore- I digress. There is nothing better to see than a team that hails across the highway from housing projects be on the verge of being undisputable champion. Forget location, it's motivation that matters.
Enough of the saga of the Sox though. I am about 14 hours away from trying to get the hardest ticket in my life. There are so many strategies that I feel more dorked out than when I learned the Contra code. My favorite thing about seeing a struggle end in success is the burden visably lifted off the faces of older people. I spent twenty minutes with my mom day dreaming the experience of a championship clinching moment. She told me that she would pour her pop out on my head.
When the Sox win it will be the most insane party in Chicago. The city will stop still, mainly since all the people working are Sox fans. The mayor is a fan. Goddamn is that great. Why? He comes from a blue collar don't fuck with me mentality.
Maybe the ambiance of the Cell is intentional. By having the projects close, gang signs on street signs, and women that could beat the snot out of any visiting fan kept our field sacred to us. No beer gardens. Drink in the parking lot or the stadium. Radio stations won't even make it to the Cell. Now they are forced. There are about 50 scared pansy radio hosts who claim the south side have "passion" that would make most people wear kevlar. I like this moment because it will show people that sure it looks not so pretty, but we play ball here too.
This is not baseball. This is an arm full of self inflicted bruises, constant eye rubbing, and the first time that many south siders have read the paper since the Bulls return to the playoffs.
I am getting circular here, so I guess I will go back to re-reading the paper.