Marshall Shelley becomes a fan of the newly well-led White Sox.
Though I've lived in Chicago more than twenty years, when it came to the White Sox, I was only a casual fan (is that an oxymoron?). Until recently.
Yes, I attended games in both old Comiskey Park and more recently "The Cell" (it's still hard for me to endorse a telecommunications product every time I want to refer to a ballpark). I rooted for the South Side Hit Men of the 1970s and witnessed the infamous Disco Demolition night.
I understood the Sox' inferiority complex. They frequently voiced sour irritation over a city that gives preferential treatment to the Cubs. But let's face it, in a long-term relationship, lovable losers are easier to identify with than sore losers.
But all that changed this year.
The White Sox emerged as baseball's best team, sweeping the Houston Astros in the World Series and winning an utterly impressive 11 out of 12 postseason games. When a friend of mine from Denver Seminary managed to snag tickets ...
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