No matter. They can't steal my joy. Not that they won't try. Yeah, they'll say, the Sox had a 15-game lead in the Central, but Cleveland nearly came back to beat them. Yeah, they swept the reigning world champs out of the playoffs, but Curt Schilling never got a shot. Los Angeles was limping. Houston had to play "outdoors." Their words can't hurt me anymore. When they say fluke, I say fate.
I mean, 88 years? That's a long time to wait for something. Granted, I've only been on the hook for the past 10, but I've also got slightly less patience than Willy Taveras at the plate, so it felt as though this day would never come. And now that it's here? Well, I can finally get on with the rest of my life. I can let my guard down, kick off my shoes and show off my pale hose. Maybe even get a Geoff Blum tattoo.
One thing for sure: I'm done apologizing for who I am. I'm a White Sox fan. Not only am I done with being ashamed of my condition, I'm also past being interested in a cure. (In fact, I'm told it's terminal.) No specialists or therapy or watching day games on a rooftop. Who needs it? I couldn't be happier with who I am. And just in case anyone missed my declaration, I might just take an express elevator to the top of the Sears Tower and scream: Look at me, world--I'm a White Sox fan!