I grew up in the family funeral home business on the northwest side of Chicago, run by my dad and uncle who were rabid White Sox fans. Though I’ve been surrounded by Cubs fans my entire life, Cubs hatred has been there. It was inherited.

The 1977 White Sox were ground zero of my baseball fandom. The White Sox and Athletics were the last counter cultural teams in MLB. With Harry Caray at the peak of his career and sidekick Jimmy Piersall enjoying a post-playing career lifestyle, they ran the bawdiest and most rollicking broadcast booth. Fueled by Harry’s Falstaffs, it was perfect for a 9-year-old. They’d be suspended after a half inning today.

The 77 White Sox didn’t pitch particularly well, their defense was atrocious, but they could knock the shit out of the ball. Bill Veeck had bought the team in the winter of 75 and didn’t really have the money to run it like the Yankees. Instead, he traded for and signed guys on their expiring contracts like Oscar Gamble and Richie Zisk (my first signed glove model I got that year by the way).

Organist Nancy Faust had begun playing opposing teams shelled pitchers off to “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye,” delirious fans coaxed our sluggers out of dugout after homers popularizing the “curtain call”, they had kick ass softball style collared jerseys ( noted curmudgeon Chris Sale cut them all up on an alternate jersey night several years back so the Sox couldn’t wear them– still can’t buy them officially in the team store)—and in Comiskey’s permanent haze of cigar, cigarette, weed and exploding scoreboard smoke, the South Side Hitmen found themselves in first place, 5 1/2 games up on August 1st. I ate many hot dogs in the parking lot of Parse’s Red Hots (the inspiration for the burger joint in “Grease” by the way) on the NW side leaning on the hood of my dad’s station wagon with the White Sox blaring on the radio.

As true baseball fans will realize, it didn’t end well. They were caught by the hated Royals and eventually even passed by the Texas Rangers, winding up in 3rd place, albeit winning 90 games. That’s baseball. Or at least it was in 1977.

As an 11-year-old, I had a brief rebellious dalliance in 1979 rooting for the Cubs. Mostly due to them being on most afternoons after school (no night games yet), catching the last few innings of the crazy 23 to 22 game, massive dongs from Dave Kingman, and the fact most Sox games were at night. Households had one TV back then, and evenings were reserved for the antics of the Happy Days gang and their various spin-offs. My dad and I would get to check the Sox score and maybe an inning or two on channel 44 around 9 p.m. before the 10 p.m. local news came on. My Cubs affair was short lived as the Sox DNA is just too strong and I was back rooting for an awful 1980 squad. 

In 81, Veeck sold the team to Jerry Reinsdorf and Eddie Einhorn. The new owners promptly forced out Harry and Jimmy, took the team off channel 44 to a new thing called Sportsvision, which you had to pay for, unheard of at the time. Harry supposedly said to Reinsdorf he could stand on the stadium roof and piss on the 500 houses that would pay for it. The ahead of its time service predated regional sports networks, so you can thank the White Sox for paying to watch every baseball game.

While the Sox saw a ratings dip in 1982, Harry moved on to the Cubs, sanded off his sharp edges, lost his fastball and became the caricature we all know today.

1983 brought a long awaited division championship, clinched on a walk off sac fly by Harold Baines scoring Julio Cruz. I was at that game with my uncle, sitting in the left field bleachers. As fans scrambled over the wall, pouring into the outfield, my uncle turned to me and said, “I’ll hold your arms and you drop down and dig up some grass.” I did as instructed. It was a lot harder getting back up into the stands than coming down. I had a baggie of dead brown grass in a cigar box for a long time. It’s gone now, I probably tried smoking it at some point.

The 90’s brought the arrival of the greatest Sox player, Frank Thomas. You can argue for Eddie Collins or Jimmie Foxx, but I only know them from books and Ken Burns. The White Sox were a decent team for most of the 90’s, but with no wild card in baseball until 95, they only scratched out one division title to make the playoffs in 93, losing to Toronto in the American League Championship Series 4 games to 2. Old Comiskey had been replaced by new Comiskey in 91, losing much of the character I grew up with. It was a cookie cutter stadium built the year before Camden Yards in Baltimore showed how it should be done. After lopping off the comically high upper upper deck after the 2003 season, dare I say it’s become a decent enough place to call home.

The 2005 World Series victory was a dream come true, but Reinsdorf has always been an awful, petty man. After winning the division in 1983, the owner reportedly  said, ” Wherever you’re at Harry and Jimmy, eat your hearts out. I hope people realize what scum you are.”  Reinsdorf also said, “My biggest mistake was not firing Harry Caray and Jimmy Piersall before the first day of the 1981 season.” Reinsdorf  (ringleader of the other 29 owners) cost the world a White Sox vs Expos 1994 World Series and recently fired the best current announcer anywhere and lifelong Sox fan Jason Benetti, only to hire a doofus who can’t even pronounce Veeck.

In spite of ownership, I’m still a White Sox fan. I’ve been here longer than them and I’ll still be here when the controlling stake in ownership transfers to Matt Ishbia in 2029 or whenever. Owners come and go. Fans don’t.

I now live a mile from Disneyfied Wrigley Field and wear my Sox hat proudly. Outside of game days and when the season is over, you’ll see way more Sox hats in Chicago proper. A sartorial choice perhaps, but I know this is Chicago’s team. The crowd at The Rate (nee Comiskey) looks like the Chicago I see, whereas Wrigley looks like they’re holding the Iowa caucus. So, after your chartered bus has let you off and you’ve toured Navy Pier, eaten a Giordano’s deep dish, and drank a beer at a sitcom themed bar on Clark Street, enjoy your Cubs. I’ll be eating a sub from Fontano’s while sitting in the amazing Ping Tom Memorial Park before pre-gaming a couple at Maria’s Package Goods. The White Sox are for us, they’re not for you.

This piece is in Recommend If You Like The Baseball Issue Summer 2026. You can find physical copies in bars, cafes and stores in Chicago and Washington, D.C. The newspaper is available for purchase here. 

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