by Justin Hernandez

It seems like only yesterday we were picking pieces of champagne soaked confetti off of our newly printed “World Series” champs gear after watching the aforementioned World Series champions as they made their way through Chicago.  It was a glorious time to be a Sox fan.

Now, as the echoes of “Don’t Stop Believing” finally stop ringing in our ears and Roger Bossard closes up shop at 35th and Shields for another year, we can only watch as our cross-town rivals are perched on the edge of playoff possibilities, championship glory, and Cooperstown immortality.  It is a horrible time to be a Sox fan.

 It seems like only yesterday we were picking pieces of champagne soaked confetti off of our newly printed “World Series” champs gear after watching the aforementioned World Series champions as they made their way through Chicago.  It was a glorious time to be a Sox fan.

Now, as the echoes of “Don’t Stop Believing” finally stop ringing in our ears and Roger Bossard closes up shop at 35th and Shields for another year, we can only watch as our cross-town rivals are perched on the edge of playoff possibilities, championship glory, and Cooperstown immortality.  It is a horrible time to be a Sox fan.

Sure, we had that whole 2007 season.  That was bad.  70 wins?  Bad.  Almost finding ourselves below the Royals at the basement of the American League?  Worse.  But watching as Wrigleyville erupts in a sea of “Cubbie blue” and having to hear chants of “Go, Cubs, go!” everywhere we go?  Worst. 

A lot of people might wonder how I can begrudge my fellow Chicagoans their time in the post-season spotlight and wish nothing but another typical Cub-esque collapse for the North Siders.  They might ask why I can’t just be happy for Wrigley Field and all its faithful.  And I really don’t know if I could ever give them a satisfying answer. 

I personally believe that in Chicago you’re either born a Sox fan or a Cubs fan.  (Any Chicago baby born a Yankees fan is, as far as I know, immediately blasted into space on the first available rocket out of the stratosphere.)  So, that puts me in the camp of having been swaddled in a Sox blanket and a lifetime of listening to Nancy Faust play the organ, watching our scoreboard explode, and learning the finer points of cussing during the mid-90s strike.  We would’ve won the Series that year, too, I tell ya. 

And just as I was born a Sox fan, so too were my counterparts up north born into a world of “Holy Cows!” and Ronnie Woo Woos and billy goat curses and whatever other false prophets they’ve adopted up on Waveland.  So, ultimately, I must simply say that I wish nothing but heartbreak on the Cubs and their fans because it is in my nature as a psychotically die hard Sox fan.  For an example from nature, simply turn on Animal Planet.  You’ll never see the lion rooting for the gazelle.  Trust me, it just doesn’t happen.  Grinder Rule #100: Never root for the Cubs.

So, no, folks, it isn’t jealousy.  It isn’t an inferiority complex.  It isn’t anything more than sibling rivalry.  So what if we can’t agree on baseball?  So what if I was physically in pain watching the Cubs clinch a playoff berth?  So what if the possibility of a Cubs World Series championship is, to me, the most tragic event to face Chicago since the Great Chicago Fire?  It’s just my nature and I know there were plenty of you up north feeling the exact same way in ‘05.  It’s one of the things that makes Chicago great.  And as much as we may find ourselves at odds during the baseball season, especially now as only one of us made it to October alive, we all can agree on one thing: Favre and the Packers suck and da Bears better run wild in Green Bay this Sunday.

And Cubs fans, don’t worry about the Cubs post-season making you miss any of the football season.  After you lose three in a row to the D-Backs, we can all stop hating one another and just go back to hating Grossman or whoever our current interception hurler of the week is.  But don’t think you won’t be seeing that White Sox World Series gear get dusted off once more and rubbed in your faces for a bit.  It’s the nature of the beast and we just can’t help ourselves.

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