The only way to go from here is down. Up is an afterthought. Not offered as an option.
The whole thing is deeper than the record set last season. Deeper than the 121 L’s and the ‘‘worst team ever’’ label. Carries more impact than how the team and its 2024 campaign will be remembered historically. Sadder than the chalked outline we cross as we step into this season.
The ‘‘ever’’ that is attached to the White Sox’ futility until some other team ‘‘decides’’ (note: Understand ‘‘decides’’ is a chosen word in this case because, much like failing or getting an F in school or a class, one has to work to achieve that low) to go even lower isn’t the worst part. It’s knowing last season that last season was coming and knowing this season that there’s a commonsense chance it might happen again.
It’s a ‘‘Where do we go from here?’’ emptiness due more to non-answers than circumstance. The fact that in the longest offseason in the history of MLB (keep in mind, the offseason began long before the final game Sept. 29), the White Sox began a rebuild with no-build by trading away their only player of true significance (Garrett Crochet) and ever-increasing talk of not if but how soon they will do the same with their only other player anyone will spend money to go see (Luis Robert Jr.).
I mean, the whole concept about a rebuild is that you have to have someone to build around. The White Sox don’t. So what really is this journey they are taking us on and why are we Sox fans still here for it?
The true data — the only data that matters as this season opens — reveals all: 400-1 odds to win the World Series, 200-1 to win the American League pennant, 100-1 to win the AL Central, .03% playoff odds, 0% World Series odds (source: ESPN.com).
The only quartz lining (because the only silver around these parts is in the uniform) in those predictions is the fact that there is another team ESPN found that was worth sharing some similar odds: the Colorado Rockies. (Even though ESPN has the Sox winning 53.5 games to the Rockies’ 59.5, but who’s counting?) So at least to open the season, the Sox are not alone at the bottom. Like they say, misery does love when it has visitors.
But, of course, those numbers become inconclusive because they don’t get to or capture the feeling of We; of what each of us will carry with us as a continual, extended vision, another episode of this live, living documentary about this team we find ourselves trapped in. Of how, why, without escape, it’s impossible as a born, bred, raised and gonna-die South Sider not to be emotionally attached to this. Not even Unicode has created that emoji.
Colson Montgomery being replaced by Jacob Amaya at shortstop while we’re sitting on prayers that Montgomery — optioned back to Triple-A during spring training — was (is?) going to be our Bobby Witt Jr. That right there kinda sums up the whole White Sox everything. Along with the added uncertainty of everyone on the planned 2025 roster, from pitchers such as Gus Varland (also just moved to Triple-A) and Mike Vasil (9.82 ERA in spring training) to whether Andrew Benintendi can return to his 2021 pre-White Sox, five-year, $75 million self.
The elders and ancestors have told us forever that at times in life we’ve all gotta laugh to keep from crying. Not fully sure if they ever envisioned this. Not even sure they had any idea if crying was the extreme release needed to comfort suffering and recovery from a 121-loss season. Because, as we all know, there is no crying in baseball. But there is suffering.
Still, we stand. Alongside a team and franchise representing a definition of pride we have no clue the meaning. We hear, ‘‘Come north.’’ Never. Another form of death besides being ‘‘the worst ever’’ would be more respectful. Not the pitcher’s mound we’ll ever decide to die on.
That whole ‘‘pick a side’’ thing is not how anyone on either side of town rolls. It’s ‘‘ride-or-die’’ on one side, ‘‘ride-and-die’’ on the other. No in-betweens while the season is still in play. ‘‘And’’ remains a part of our White Sox fate.
In Boston, the year after Bill Russell left the Celtics as player, coach and symbol of excellence, they called it ‘‘The Year of the Ouch.’’ What do we here call this White Sox season following last year? The Year of Collective Trauma. As baseball in South Chicago goes, trauma is easily a shared experience.
Will Venable, God bless you.
Laugh to keep from crying. Lie to keep from crying. Pray to keep from crying. Anything outside of selling our souls to survive the next six months. It’s a damn shame when the floor is your ceiling.