Sean Burke debuts his arm in the majors and experiences the classic lack of South Side offense
Author’s note: For tonight’s game coverage, I’ll be abandoning illeism, opting instead for a personal story due to the circumstances of late-season Chris Getz exhaustion and burnout. If you dislike that, maybe you should skip this one altogether.
The last time I put my worst foot forward in life, I was a high school freshman, working at a fast food job that I needed in order to feed myself, despite being too young to legally drive myself to work. My manager, a resentful, teenager-loathing clod, refused to believe that I had a medical condition that prevented me from having full use of my hands if they were cold, because, as he concluded, 15-year-old me was “hot.” Apparently, being an attractive child disqualifies you from being disabled (or viewed as a child), and only the outwardly disfigured were allowed to be sick. I didn’t have a diagnosis yet, but even if I had, something told me that it wouldn’t have made a difference.
So when my manager doubled down and threatened my job unless I continued to hand-wash the endless pile of freezing cold vegetables for coleslaw, I had no choice. In unbearable pain, I found my floppy and unusable neuropathic hands had refused to move due to the immobilizing cold.
I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. With uncooperative hands, I retreated into the walk-in freezer, muting my sobs by muffling them with my arm for about a minute, before returning to my carrot and cabbage prison. I had to run my partially-paralyzed hands under the scorching hot water in the dark prep room in the back in order to get them to move again, but since I have neuropathy, I didn’t realize how hot the water was. I burnt my skin, and all in the name of the huge vat of coleslaw whose majority was unceremoniously pitched into the dumpster at the end of the shift.
I would exact my revenge upon my dickhead pedo manager by doing the bare minimum at that fast food asstrench, stealing as many crispy strips and sides as possible at every opportunity, and being the world’s biggest jag-off to every person who crossed my path, until I got fired. It took longer than you’d think.
I blamed my manager, the owner, and the franchise at large, having been wronged while struggling to survive amidst bleak circumstances, but now I know that the firing was my own fault, regardless of the lawbreaking of my manager. I won’t reveal the name of the franchise, but let’s say it rhymes with Unlucky Snide Wiccan.
Once I grew up and learned what accountability was, I stopped quietly quitting anything, and became an overachiever. I evolved into a person who wanted to do things the best I could, and the serotonin rush I experienced when committing myself to being my best was far greater than resentfully resigning myself to tasks, and rejecting them before the world had a chance to reject me. I still don’t know if that was something I learned due to circumstances, or if it was an inherent trait, buried by my subconscious until it was safe to be discovered. Maybe it developed because I was tired of being underestimated and pitied once I’d received an official diagnosis for my hereditary form of Muscular Dystrophy.
The misery of my past is a million miles away now, allowing me to objectively look back and recognize that all those cruel experiences have transformed and refined me into the person I am today. I’m an accomplished middle-aged person who feels happiness at a base default level, and there are many things in life that give me great joy; enjoying the friends I’m lucky to have, being outdoors, video games, reading and writing, my dogs, cooking & baking, performing musical sketch comedy, and making an ass out of myself in front of hundreds of people.
You know what used to be high on that list? Baseball.
During a losing season, covering baseball is still fun, especially for South Side Sox, because the staff receives an endless well of support from our head honcho, esteemed writer and former beat guy Brett Ballantini, someone I respect greatly. Brett is my editor for this article, so he’s surely blushing, as he’s exceedingly humble and down-to-earth, and makes it a point to downplay his impressive accolades and contributions. Before coming to South Side Sox, I had only written for television and stage, as well as completing a couple of fiction novels, which all have almost nothing in common with sports journalism. Brett was a person I’d seen on TV, interviewing the sports heroes I watched growing up, and doing so with personality and natural authenticity. As an on-camera reporter, he had the “it” factor (that thing that Chuck Garfien wishes he possessed even a modicum of) and he had approached me to be a writer for South Side Sox, which was flattering. Brett saw my comedy-centered weird takes, off-beat jokes, and random bullshit that I brought to the table as a thing worthy of being praised.
That praise has made writing for the shittiest team of all time a joy, and helped me focus on my 2024 goal for the season: to make readers smile, or at least forcibly exhale air out of their noses in a sort of laugh-to-yourself way. It made me want to strive to be endlessly better for my readers, to make it easier for you to deal with this team that used to be a good distraction from the horrors of the real world.
But now, at the end of this season, I’m struggling to make you smile.
The Chicago White Sox organization has been putting their worst foot forward this season, and the rest of us have been trying to make up for it. Chris Getz is like the fast food manager who sexually harasses the children who work for him, then complains when they stop smiling at customers when he’s on their shift. The players are like the petulant teenagers at the restaurant who only work when they think their boss is watching, and although there’s no excuse for quiet quitting, we don’t know the kind of invalidation and dismissal they’re facing behind the scenes. We can say they’re overpaid (taking crispy strips and sides home, on top of their pay, plus slamming like eight large fountain Mountain Dews per shift and giving free food to their friends who come in), but commensurate income is subjective, as we in the first world are aware. Jerry Reinsdorf is like the franchise owner, who cuts corners, pockets cash, ignores child labor laws and time constraints, and engages in doctoring earnings. It’s a shitshow from the outside, and none of us know the horrors within.
All the joy, fun, and excitement I’d felt covering games has vanished now at the end of the season, replaced with an emptiness I could never have imagined at the start. The franchise I’ve been a part of on a cellular level for generations, that’s gifted me with opportunities to connect with others, is now an albatross, ensnaring me in its soul-sucking hopelessness, keeping me handcuffed to my keyboard every Tuesday, week after week. And now, with this breakout into a brand new network, a surprise Roger Bossard-sodded field at the unfunded 78, and Getz victimizing himself after he shot himself in the foot, I ask: How much of this can a fan take before jumping ship?
If you’re a regular reader of mine, surely you’ve recognized the steep drop-off of jokes and bits in my game coverage over the last couple of weeks. The reason for this personal introduction into tonight’s game coverage is to level with you, White Sox fans. What jokes are left to make about an organization that has run us, our traditions, and our memories into the ground with it? What is there left to make fun of while watching a team that’s quietly quit and refuses to make wash the vegetables for the fucking coleslaw that will be discarded too soon?
Where do we go from here as fans? There are a limited number of iterations of a photoshopped Jerry Reinsdorf smoking rolled up hundred dollar bills, encrusted in diamonds, or Guaranteed Rate Field plastered with Spirit Halloween signs, that I can create. If you’re thinking, “Stop being serious, Billick. It’s time to entertain the masses,” then don’t worry, I promise I’ll try to make my last two game coverage articles of the season funny again, and fully return to not referring to myself.
Something I never thought I’d say has settled into my bones this week: It’s not fucking funny anymore.
The new network will make money despite having a lukewarm-take, no-personality, milquetoast pea-brain shitshow host who’s too big of a yes-man to opine about anything that isn’t part of the accepted script. They’ll try to make up for his lack of talent by gracing us with our long-time favorites, Frank Thomas and Ozzie Guillén, hopefully, because they know we love them and they have nothing to do with the front office or ownership. I wish they’d review old tapes of Brett’s beat stuff and offer him a contract so our suffering would end under baby back bitch Garfien, and please, Brett, although you’re editing this, don’t remove it.
They’ll weaponize our sentimentality, knowing our affection for the franchise and its traditions will have us forgiving them in order to lock back in step with our favorite pastime. They know us South Siders are part of a club; one that likely our parents and grandparents were part of, one that is synonymous with family for many, and they’ll use those rituals to gain our mercy and take more of our money.
After a while, we’ll forget that multi-billionaire Jerry Reinsdorf grifted his way into The 78 being a reality, and we’ll go there, excited by the new stadium, in a new neighborhood, our fandom revitalized by how much we feel is being given to us. Hell, I’ll probably be one of the first in the drink, eagerly kayaking the river during the game because that rendering looks unbelievably cool. But we know it’s all a long grift; one we’ll forget we’re falling for, because we love baseball, the South Side, and the White Sox. It’s masterful on their part. They know it’s a built-in financial win despite their shameful attempts at self-destruction.
The bright side is that we as White Sox fans can come back from this pit of despair. During the Covid-19 pandemic, our beloved Chicago theaters were permanently shuttered, long-standing businesses were forgotten, and our baseline social acumen evaporated so neck-breakingly fast that we now have shit like walking group meetups, in order to make new friends. Even me, with too many friends to reasonably keep up, took the initiative to start a swim club at my beach, in order to bring our neighbors and friends together for a post-pandemic reimagining of what a third space is. We always find ways to rebuild. We’re Chicagoans. We have broad fucking shoulders. We’re nice, but not to a fault. And we can and will have South Side Chicago baseball without going to Bridgeview for a Thunderbolts game, because no one has time for that much traffic or CTA transfers. The price: Making the Reinsdorf dynasty richer.
We will forget, White Sox fans. We love it too much to abandon it altogether. Our fandom will perhaps be fanned by the flames of a newly competitive Chicago Bears team, ushered in by the Caleb Williams era, this year or next. Spring training will come around, and we’ll feel that familiar pull. We’ll tune in for the home opener, and tears will brim in our eyes as we’re touched by the nostalgia of South Side baseball, a thing that’s been there for us longer than we’ve existed on this planet.
I hope the 2024 White Sox season is as shameful for the owners and decision-makers as the 1919 Black Sox scandal was for the players. But let’s face it: This is a business, and one that doesn’t care about ethics, so long as it keeps making money. And while it’s true that there can never be ethical consumption under capitalism, it feels personal when the franchise we’re a part of has been gutted by greedy, grifting double-crossers.
So, South Siders, boycott the White Sox if you need to. Take a break, a temporary breather. Take the winter, or even a season or two. But be warned and aware: You’ll be back. If Jerry sells the team or passes it to his progeny and keeps the nepotism thick, if enough time has passed, if one of your favorite former players is hired as an on-air contributor, or if the prospects pan out. Any, or all of these will bring you back. Our sense of humor may be gone for the rest of the season, but our hearts will always be here, whether we like it or not.
With commentary and prefaced warning for lack of comedy out of the way, it’s time to cover tonight’s game.
Jonathan Cannon had an unexpected commanding performance, throwing the ball as well as he could. He pitched through 5 ⅓ innings, with the early-inning jitters only costing him a run in the second off a couple hits.
Also in the second, Dominic Fletcher hit a hard comebacker to Ben Lively, smashing his back hamstring, which saw him being helped off the mound and out of the game. No, it wasn’t even a hit. Luckily, Lively only suffered a contusion. Pedro Avila took his place, and the rest of the Guardians bullpen consistently kept the White Sox offense subdued.
Cannon was pulled in the sixth inning at 91 pitches, while Andrew Vaughn had his fourth straight multi-hit game, a streak that means nothing to the team when they fail to send him home.
Righty Sean Burke made his MLB debut when he came in from the bullpen for the first time for the White Sox in the seventh, spitting fire past Bo Naylor for his first career strikeout. Grady Sizemore has expressed interest in having Burke start soon, but time will tell. The righty rookie stayed in the game for the last two innings, giving up another run in the ninth after committing his first error while trying to throw out Steven Kwan at first. He’s fun to watch, looks confident, and killed it in his debut.
The Guardians used seven pitchers tonight, ultimately shutting out the White Sox with a final score of 5-0. It was a painful watch, but it could have been worse. I guess the bar is in hell.
I’ll see you next week, White Sox fans, and I promise I’ll bring the funny.
White Sox 2024 Record 33-113, worst 146-game start in White Sox history (13 games worse than the 1932 White Sox), worst MLB start all-time (a half-game worse than the 1916 A’s) and a season-high 80 games below .500
White Sox 2024 Run Differential -309, tied for ninth-worst 146-game start in MLB history
White Sox 2024 Season Record Pace 37-125 (.226)
All-Time White Sox Record (1901-2024) 9,586-9,604 (.4996)
Race to the Worst “Modern” 162-Game Record (2003 Tigers, 43-119) 6 games worse; need to finish 11-5 to end season 44-118
Race to the Worst “Modern” Record in a 162-Game Season (1962 Mets, 40-120) 4 games worse; need to finish 8-8 to end season 41-121
Race to the Most White Sox Losses (1970, 106) new record set (113 and counting)
Race to the Worst White Sox Record (1932, 52-109-1*) CLINCHED, now 12 games worse than the 1932 team
Race to the Worst Post-1899 Record (1916 A’s, 38-124*) 1 game worse; need to finish season 6-10 to finish 39-123
*record adjusted to a 162-game season
