Last season, overwhelmed by the pandemonium both on the field and in the world at large, I took a yearlong break from baseball. The scores were pinned to my home screen, but not a single full game was broadcast in my home. For the first time since 2003, I was tuned out. I got so much accomplished with my extra time, and was riding that dopamine dragon, fueled by my toiler to-do lists and my Capricorn moon (Aquarius sun, Leo rising, for those who know).
My dad and I joked about being bandwagon fans
when we landed on the conclusion of taking a break, but qualifying anyone else’s fandom is peak cringe, and gatekeeping isn’t for me. Join the club, or don’t, it’s not my business. Still, it felt wrong to miss games, like I was abandoning a part of myself, my history and my city. I wouldn’t have been able to forsake the White Sox without my dad doing the same at the same time, and he also didn’t see a single game in its entirety.
It stressed us out.
Although I kept tabs on the White Sox and their offseason moves, I still felt an acute sense of dread when considering recommitting to my fandom. I used to love and defend this team, but I no longer could fall upon the sword, especially with the specter of Mike Clevinger casting a foul shadow over the organization. Watching games became an albatross, and obligation to something that fucking sucks is a death knell for creative energy.
Sometimes, a trial separation can grant you the perspective that you otherwise wouldn’t gain while still embroiled in the madness.
For the first time, I dove headfirst into the NFL. Before the baseball break, the Chicago Bears and Buffalo Bills were my teams, and I scheduled my days around their games. Without baseball, I needed more. I plugged the MLB-sized cavity with the gauze of NFL Sunday Ticket, watching every single game and every team. Bears in the living room, Bills in the den, and the rest of the simulcast games in the bedroom. Ten thousand steps a day, every Sunday, was accomplished just in the space of my home, walking between games. Unlike baseball, which tends to make a loner out of fans, every Sunday was an event: early morning gym with friends, come back to my place to make food, watch every single football game, and talk shit together.
Is baseball boring? I asked myself. I watched every White Sox game for decades, whether writing about it or not, but game coverage was becoming unsustainable when covering a team I fundamentally took issue with.
Not to mention, almost none of my friends are baseball fans, except for one who used to work for the Cubs, still adores them, and throws me piteous glances when quietly answering someone about her team with an air of Pollyanaism. I deserve it.
Although I finally fell head over heels in love with the NFL, football doesn’t last forever. The baseball itch returned. No, no more White Sox. Not yet.
How about basketball? Take a look at my March Madness bracket points. I am an embarrassment to the world of sports, and about 30 people were making fun of how poorly I did in a group chat I wasn’t even a part of. I deserved it.
Options exhausted, and itching for baseball, I studied to get my boating license and completed the course. That’s Captain Di to you, matey.
(I don’t own a boat, by the way.)
Determined, I found a new sport: marble racing. You can watch sentient marbles racing on Youtube with an announcer calling play-by-play, teams with rivalries, and once, there was even a streaker marble stopped by security. I called my friends over and forced them to watch it with me. I finally won. Go Hazers!
Who was I fooling? Opening Day loomed. My fingers itched. My mind returned again and again by the ghost of the White Sox.
I needed to come home.
Back in 2024, I wrote an article about a sentient campfire milkshake, who was granted the gift of foresight after being struck by lightning during a rain delay, and who was interviewed by me after I snuck into the White Sox locker room. True story. It wasn’t the first, and far from the last time I expressed my interest in any and either of the Ishbia brothers taking ownership of the White Sox.
So, as soon as I got the news about Justin Ishbia, I knew I’d be dropping by this season at least a few times, even if the ownership transfer date is coinciding with the total collapse of the global climate and I’ll probably be a charred skeleton by the time it finally happens. I won’t bore readers with the career minutiae of why I’ll be here less than I was, but please know that I’ve missed everyone on the staff, who work tirelessly to make South Side Sox a place you can come to commiserate with fellow fans, and share your misery and joy without being subjected to censorship.
Oops, almost forgot. Happy Thursday, White Sox fans. I’m back.
The world has changed in my time away. AI has taken way too high of a priority in peoples’ lives. With the complacency paradox, the brain rot, and its overall impact on the environment it is no longer an amusing novelty. So it’s banned for me, even for things like crude images. It’s good old-fashioned Photoshop from here on out.
For all the changes, some things are evergreen. John Schriffen still makes my eye twitch. I have come into this season with a resolution to give him a break, but then, the other night, I heard, “Tanner Murray in his big league bay-bue!”
Since then, I’ve heard four other gaffes. Hey, quick question, how does one go about stopping an eye from twitching?
We’ve got a new roster, and inexplicably, Andrew Benintendi is still here, and is scoring. Good ol’ tomato boy. Just being himself. Sitting there. Yep.
Davis Martin had already won my heart, so seeing him more often has given my faith a shot in the arm, especially with his impressive start this season. It’s easy for some to be on camera, but it’s challenging for trained athletes, whose attentions are forced to be myopic, and who usually aren’t media-trained until after retirement. Martin’s charisma sparkles during interviews (please don’t be problematic, please don’t be problematic, please don’t be…). That level of grounding and focus can make a difference in day-to-day performances, and man, I hope it does. I may be huffing the copium, but you are as well. That’s why we’re all here.
I’ve had an eye on Shane Smith, our Rule 5 diamond in the rough, and despite his violent fluctuations from hot to not, I doubt he’ll end up pulling an Esteban Loaiza. Yesterday, Smith was sent back to Charlotte after just three starts that were on par with what we’ve had to deal with as current-era White Sox fans, but he’s dedicated to improving, and his attitude is optimistic. Plus, he reads actual books. Hey, watch out for that bar on the floor, by the way.
I can’t help but root for the underdog. My March Madness bracket is proof that sometimes we believe with our hearts and not our minds. There’s only one bigger underdog than the White Sox, but moves are being made. The tide is turning. Dark shadowfiend domestic abusers have been removed from the roster. Jerry Reinsdorf is running out of children’ s souls to prolong his life with, and the transfer is set in stone.
Kyle Teel will heal. Chase Meidroth may look at the pitcher like he’s trying to see what’s hidden in the Magic Eye poster, but he can play. Munetaka Murakami is a potential superstar enjoying a powerful start to his major league career, and he’ll adjust challenging high velocity pitches. Miguel Vargas is underrated as hell, and this season, he’ll prove it to everyone. The team is young. Anything can happen.
The gears are moving. The machine is being oiled. Like the reigning American League Champion Toronto Blue Jays enduring a series sweep against the reigning second-worst team in Major League Baseball, maybe the other teams won’t see the White Sox coming.
