My Uncle Ron has always been a bit of a black sheep in my father’s family.  He was the type to always zig when the rest of the family was busy zagging away.  It was his  house that I was at the fateful weekend when my baseball eyes were opened.

I must have been around four or five years old.  These were the days when I would often be left at a relative’s house while my folks went out and did things together.  I had cousins who were about the same age as me and we would hang out and play in that way that only kids can.  In other words, with boundless energy that would really come in handy later in life.

I was hanging in my two male cousin’s room that day.  My cousin, Ronnie Jr, had a poster on his wall.  I had known a little bit about baseball from all of the Cubs stuff that had been rammed down my throat by my father.  I knew the Cubs uniforms.  This group of guys, however, were dressed in baseball uniforms but the uniforms were this hideous powder blue and they had on bright red caps.

“Who are these guys?”  I asked.

“Those are the Sox,” my cousin told me.

“Who?”  I believe I asked.

“The Chicago White Sox,” he said as though I were the dumbest person on the planet.

It was then that I knew there was another baseball team in the city of Chicago.  I have always been the type who wanted to do the zigging while others were zagging, just like my uncle.  It seemed to me that everyone I knew was a Cubs fan.  Well, hey, here was a team that I knew nothing about and it was an alternative to all of that Cubs stuff.  With nothing more than that, I  made the decision that I was a Sox fan.

I have a vague recollection of having a conversation about the team with my father in the car later that day.  I don’t really remember what was said, but I can guess it went something like this:

“Who are the Sox, dad?”

“They’re a baseball team.”

“Do they play in Chicago?’

“Yes, they play in a different league from the Cubs.  They play on the south side of the city.”

I paused to think for a few moments.  “I think I’m a Sox fan.”

I couldn’t have broken my father’s heart more blatantly if I had reached into his chest and squeezed it with both hands.  I don’t think he took me too seriously.  I mean, really, how many five year olds do you know who make serious lifetime commitments to something and then stick with it.

To be fair, I did not become a diehard right then and there.  I did not start watching Sox games or listening to them on the radio.  In general, sports still held little interest for me.  However, when people asked me which team I rooted for, the name White Sox came out from between my lips.

My uncle was delighted.  The rest of my family, not so much.  In fact, to this day, most of my family forgets that I am a White Sox fan.  Most of them forget until I show up at a family function with a White Sox cap on.

“What’s with the Sox hat?”  I am asked, again and again.

“Been a fan all of my life,” I say.

It was a rough existence up until a few years ago.  However, that’s a story for another time.

To be continued…

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