Dear Chicago White Sox:

Guys, you know I love you. You�re the only major league baseball team I�ve ever watched play in person (well, and your opponents). [I almost said that Comiskey is the only major league park I�ve been in, but I was forgetting the time my friend M., who worked at Fenway, let us into the park on our way back from a jazz concert so we could run the bases at 2 a.m. I kicked off my heels and ran barefoot, even though it was freezing cold.] But do you think you could wrap it up tonight? Because this series is really way too exciting and it�s interfering with my work. We are a house full of insomniacs, thanks to you.

The first time I ever went to a non-little league game was when a friend of my brother�s gave me tickets to one of your games against the Royals. It was one of the early games in the new Comiskey Park � the shadow of the old park was still visible from the top of the ramp. I took my friend D., a Swedish composer with a gift for asking startlingly frank questions. We drank beer and he taught me how to shout colorful epithets in Swedish at the batters while considering atonal options for Take Me Out to the Ballgame. D., of course, pointed out that the ballpark rendition was already pretty atonal. We cheered when you won, even though, to be honest, we hadn�t been paying much attention.

The second time I ever went to a major league game, I was on the field. It was an important anniversary of my university, so the university president threw out the first pitch (it didn�t even make it to the plate) and one of my choirs was singing the national anthem. We passed through security in front of all the waiting fans and followed a series of ramps and long, dimly lit passages beneath the ballpark. All of a sudden, we were nearly blinded by brilliant lights and we were standing on the preternaturally green grass of the field. We stood, dazzled, behind home plate, huddled around some rickety microphone stands. Someone blew into a pitchpipe and we began to sing. Although we couldn�t hear ourselves at all, our voices were echoed back through the sound system from all directions. When we were through, we were escorted to our seats behind your dugout where we felt like celebrities.

Since then, I�ve gone to many games. I�ve married into a White Sox family � my husband and one of his brothers rooting hard for their team, in part because of personal conviction, but also in memory of their father, who was a lifelong fan and who died too young. Their older brother, however defected to that other team, something my husband attributes to his abandoning his blue-collar roots in favor of law school. I�m not sure he will ever be forgiven for that particular transgression.

My husband has been in agony all week. He dozed off before the end of last night�s game and woke in the middle of the night to check the score, which so excited him that he couldn�t get back to sleep. Not superstitious by nature, suddenly he will watch or not watch based on how the Sox do when he turns on the TV. Today he wonders if it will jinx things if he goes to buy some premature champagne.

My son AJ, now four, has an entire collection of White Sox attire, provided by his Sox-loving uncle. The first was a newborn-sized onesie covered with pictures of teddy bears wearing Sox uniforms. His latest edition is a pint size replica of an actual uniform. AJ, third-generation Sox fan, has taken to wearing it around the house on game day, even though it�s getting a little bit snug under the arms. Every night he asks to sing �Take Me Out to the Ballgame� at bedtime, where we �root, root, root for the WHITE SOX.� And every morning he wakes up and runs to his father for the game report, for even when your games do not last 14 innings and over 5 hours, he still is not old enough to stay up and watch them. This morning he brought his two favorite animal friends, Caterpillar and Rub-a-Tubby to join him on the sofa to watch the Sportscenter recap. He dressed them appropriately for the occasion:

So, you can see, I hope, why we really need you to win tonight. Our house has been turned upside down. Friends and relatives with whom we haven�t spoken in ages are calling to congratulate us and talking for hours. We are not sleeping. We are afraid to buy champagne. Even the stuffed animals are suffering indignities. Please rescue us from this chaos. We know you can do it!

Best wishes and much luck,

Harriet

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