So I think that it is time to try to put everything in perspective. I know to a lot of people the World Series was pretty meaningless. I saw the ratings, I read the sports columnists complain that this was a poorly played series that no one really cared about, that it would have been much better if the Red Sox or the Yankees were in it. And I know that for some people out there that means that the blog hasn't been as interesting a read the past few weeks. Because of that I'll try to explain what this all means to me.
You make your connection to your favorite team when you are young and a lot of times that is simply a matter of geography. And I really understand that argument that if you are a lifelong fan you are not cheering a team or a player but really you are cheering geography. Seriously, I don't think any of the guys on the White Sox are actually from Chicago. The second baseman is from Japan to begin with and the manager is from Venezuela. But I don't cheer (and this holds for wherever you are from) the White Sox or the Bears just because I am from Chicago. I cheer the team because my parents supported the team. I cheer because my grandfather would tell me stories about how he knew the Andy Fran ushers at Old Comiskey and would sneak into games for free and how he knew the organist at the old Chicago Stadium and would watch Black Hawks games from the rafters. When you grow up in a situation such as that being a sports fan is a family legacy. We may have come to this country as immigrants but this is our team.
That might explain why I am such a loyal supporter. It doesn't explain why I seem to have lost my mind the last few weeks watching my team win. For that you really have to understand what it was like to be a kid in the late 70's/early 80's watching Chicago sports. I firmly believe that your love of sports is driven into you when you are seven or eight years old. And when I was that age, learning how to read by the sports section, Chicago teams were awful. We're talking about the Bob Avelini/Vince Evans Bears era. With Neil Armstrong as the head coach, which confused the hell out of me on science tests for a decade. Bulls teams where the highlight was Artis Gilmore's hair. And baseball was, well, we never won. Ever. It was just known. Hadn't been to a World Series since 1959. Hadn't won one since 1917. And this was with two teams. It was statistically impossible for that to happen but there you were.
So I grew up loving my Chicago teams but knowing, deep in my heart, that we would never win. Sure, we might come close and we definitely have some great players but it would never work out. And the times that it actually came through (like the Bears in '85), it was as close to a living dream as you could possibly imagine. I don't know if anyone could really appreciate it because you were so frightened that you might wake up before the ending.
This brings me to where I am now. I'm older, with grey hair starting to show up around the edges. I've moved out of Chicago on to greener pastures, or at least to a more cow intensive environment. I'm far removed from that eight year old kid who learned how to keep score in the right field seats of a Sox-Yankees game. With all my education, with everything that has gone on in my life, it really should be just a game.
But to see that team you cheered when you were a kid finally be the ones holding the trophy at the end. To look at the crowd and know that everyone there is thinking about the generations of fans who wanted nothing more just to see this moment. You can't say it any simpler than it is a dream come true.
And if the Sox can win the World Series, anything is possible.
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