Regular readers of this blog (I know you’re out there… wait, I think I hear someone, yes, there’s a sound out there, it’s the sound of breathing that I hear over the noise of the distantly chirping crickets) will soon be, ahem, treated to my ongoing ‘affection’ for the Chicago White Sox. ‘Affection’ is a funny word, and ‘obsession’ is incorrect other than the fact that I have to check in on them, sort of like picking at a scab. You will hear more about it because it will become my distraction, almost my hobby, as I research and write the next novel. The next novel will have nothing whatsoever to do with baseball, by the way. It will not be a sequel to Sweetsmoke. But it will be historical fiction (and that’s all you’re gonna get, for now).
No, the reason you will hear more about the Sox is that I now have a fellow sufferer in the White House. I know that whatever frustrations and irritations I feel about my (argh) beloved team will be shared by a gentleman who has actual power. Not that he’ll have the power to do anything about the team, mind you. But just knowing the team will be irritating him as well is something of a balm.
I’ve been a White Sox fan since I was three years old. My entire family are Cubs fans. I gather that speaks to the fact that I was contrary even then. But more on this later. Or, rather, moron this later.
Silly careless White Sox. So who’d they sign…? Who’s going to be their fifth pitcher? Who’s going to lead off this year?