The Chicago White Sox are a team you have to choose. They don’t seduce you with ivy walls or postcard sunsets. They don’t have the easy romance of Wrigley or the national following of the Yankees. No, being a White Sox fan is something more elemental—less about charm, more about grit. It’s about loyalty, even when the team doesn’t deserve it. Especially then.
They were born on the South Side in 1900 and wasted no time making noise. By 1906, they’d won a World Series, toppling the crosstown Cubs in what must have been the most satisfying championship in franchise history. They were known then as the "Hitless Wonders"—a team that bunted, stole, and clawed its way to victory. It was never pretty. But it worked.
Then came 1919. The stain that still lingers.
Eight players, including Shoeless Joe Jackson, were accused of conspiring to throw the World Series. Whether they all did or didn’t is still debated by people who read court transcripts like scripture. What’s certain is that they were banned for life, and the team entered a kind of purgatory. For years, the Sox were less a contender than a cautionary tale. The scandal became a ghost that haunted everything afterward—especially Jackson, who insisted to his death that he’d played to win.
It wasn’t until 1959 that they clawed their way back to the Series, led by speed, defense, and a brilliant Cuban connection in Minnie Miñoso—one of the first Afro-Latino stars in the majors. They lost, but the team was beloved. Still, it would take until 2005 to win it all again.
And what a win it was.
That year, the White Sox didn’t just win the World Series—they erased their ghosts. They swept the Astros, going 11–1 through the postseason, led by a team of grinders and role players. Paul Konerko. Jermaine Dye. A pitching staff that felt carved from steel. It wasn’t flashy. It was efficient. Ruthless. Exactly how the South Side would have wanted it.
There’s something about this team that defies narrative arcs. They don’t follow the script. They’ve never been a dynasty, never the league’s darlings. But when they’re good, they’re dangerous. And when they’re bad—well, they’re the White Sox. You take the scars with the rings.
I’ve always had a soft spot for them, even from afar. There’s dignity in the struggle. Pride in the unpolished. They play in a stadium that’s changed names more times than a con artist. The skyline isn’t picturesque. The surrounding neighborhood doesn’t attract tourists. But the Sox belong to Chicago in a way the Cubs never quite can. They’re not myth. They’re reality.
To stand in the parking lot where Comiskey once stood, and then walk into Guaranteed Rate Field just across the street, is to walk a thin line between eras. Past and present. Shame and triumph. Pain and pride.