I SWEAR I DON'T HATE THE WHITE SOX...

By Rick Kaempfer




I actually grew up liking the White Sox.

I always preferred the Cubs, but I never understood why it was necessary to also hate the White Sox, so I didn’t.

That changed in October of 1984. I was 21 years old at the time, a college junior, living in an apartment at the University of Illinois. Most of my friends, including the guy who normally writes this column with me (Dave Stern), were Sox fans. At first, their petty jealousy about the Cubs' drive toward the World Series didn’t bother me. I thought it was a little pathetic that they couldn’t let it go around me—-especially since I was rooting for the White Sox the previous year when they were in the playoffs—-but I figured, consider the source.

I hadn’t counted on Steve Garvey.

For those of you who don’t remember what happened that year, the Cubs were up 2 games to zip over the San Diego Padres. They only needed to win one more game to go the World Series, and they had three chances to do it. They lost pretty convincingly in Game 3.

Game 4 was another story. The Cubs had the lead late in the game when Steve Garvey came up to bat. I was watching the game in my living room surrounded by Sox fans, led by my good friends Dave and Stu. Just before Garvey stepped into the batter’s box, Stu declared: “He’s going deep.” I scoffed outwardly, but inwardly my intestines were twirled into a knot.

When Garvey lived up to Stu’s prediction, I was stunned—-it’s a moment that still stings today—-a young life forever altered, an optimistic young lad transformed into a bitter, cynical old man in the blink of an eye. I saw the world clearly for the first time—-there was no joy or happiness on this planet—-life was just going to be a series of bone-crushing disappointments leading up to my eventual death.

Seeing your best friend’s hopes and dreams crushed in such a dramatic fashion would have given most humans with actual feelings a moment’s pause.

Not stereotypical Sox fans Stu and Dave.

No sir. Stu and Dave took that moment, which incidentally was the worst moment of my life at the time, to high-five each other right over my head. They were giggling with glee.

Their hatred of the Cubs was stronger than their affection for their best friend.

That showed me what it meant to be a Sox fan. I figured I had to choose at that moment. The way I figured it, I had three choices.

#1: Take the high five in the spirit it was intended, laugh about it, become one of them, and eventually enter the gates of Hell with no soul.
#2: Get a gun and blow their brains out.
#3: Sever all ties with the White Sox forever.

I chose #3 because I didn’t have a gun in the house.

I’ve never looked back.

The only problem with this plan was that I didn’t have the blackened soul to properly counteract the dark, dark hate of the White Sox fan. I wasn’t a heartless beast roaming the earth, devouring sunshine for breakfast, ravenously gorging myself on my fellow man’s good will for lunch and dinner, sucking away the last few vestiges of the Earth’s hope and love with my empty vacuuming soul.

I tried. I really did. I went to the '93 White Sox playoffs and tried to root against the Sox. I sat right next to Dave…but all I felt was pity. I was a friend first, a hater second.

Dave repaid my restraint by calling me up during Cubs no-hitters so he could be on the phone with me to hear the disappointment in my voice during the inevitable hit. I’m not kidding. He actually did that. Each time he did it, the no-hitter was ruined.


We went to the Cubs-Sox games together the first couple of years they played against each other, but more often than not, I was just setting myself up for more despair. One year when the Sox swept the Cubs at Wrigley, he brought a broom, and swept me.


During the 2003 Bartman debacle, I wouldn’t answer the phone. Later he claimed he was just calling to offer sympathy—he claimed he actually felt sorry for the Cubs.

Right.

During the 2005 World Series, I went to Game 2 with Dave. Scott Podsednik hit the home run to win it in the ninth, and the ball fell about twenty rows in front of us. Dave, a man that had actual evil pulsing through his veins, was being rewarded for his behavior. It just didn’t make sense to me.

It wasn’t until I went to buy a beer that I understood. While the White Sox fan in front of me was buying a beer, he turned around and pointed at me.

“I’m buying for this guy too,” he said. “This is a day to celebrate.”

That’s when it hit me. God wasn’t rewarding Dave; he was rewarding other White Sox fans, many of whom are actual human beings with decency and regard for their fellow man. I realized at that moment, that I didn’t hate all Sox fans.

I only hate Dave.


Next week, Dave responds.