If the White Sox’ recent troubles served any purpose, it was to make their fans admit to each other how much this year’s team meant to them. As delightfully unexpected as their early success was–the White Sox had the best record in baseball for most of the season–the fans seemed almost blase about it. But that’s the south-side manner–or, more accurately, the Sox-fan manner–and it’s often misinterpreted.
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The Sox knew their August stretch of 15 straight games with the New York Yankees, Boston Red Sox, and Minnesota Twins–including home-and-home series with the Yanks and Twins–would be a critical test. After losing the opening game of that sequence in Yankee Stadium, they twice beat the Yankeees 2-1; Aaron Rowand particularly distinguished himself with his smooth, gliding play in center field. Yet when the Sox traveled on to Fenway Park, Mark Buehrle couldn’t hold a four-run lead as the Sox lost to Boston 9-8, and the next night Jon Garland got clobbered in a 7-4 defeat. When rain washed out the Sox’ 5-2 fourth-inning lead in the Sunday finale, the Fates seemed to be conspiring against them.
That’s when the fans tried to put the team on their shoulders. A raucous sold-out crowd of 39,496 turned out on a Friday night determined to cheer an end to the Sox’ skid as they met the hated Yankees. But the Sox again could muster no offense, and Mike Mussina outdueled Garland 3-1. Saturday’s matinee was worse–the Sox were shut out. Their lead was down to eight and a half games over the Cleveland Indians, they’d conceded the best record in baseball to the Saint Louis Cardinals, comparisons with the cursed ’69 Cubs had replaced the clinching magic number in the newspapers, and erratic Jose Contreras was going against fearsome Randy Johnson in the series finale.
Not even Garcia’s loss on Sunday could put a damper on things. By that time Sox fans were back to being unflappable, and I recalled an incident toward the end of that skid-snapping game with the Yanks. Among the joyous fans in the left-field corner, where I was sitting, was a guy wearing a Red Sox cap who started giving grief to some Yankees fans seated nearby. They jawed back and forth as if the White Sox were beneath contempt, as if they didn’t exist. The funny thing was, the Chicago fans didn’t seem to mind. It was as if the skid had returned the White Sox to the role of underdogs and let their fans be what they’re comfortable being: secure in their insecurities and hopeful that one year–maybe this year–things will change.
