Mondays with Mike: Goin’ to Kansas City

Today is November 2, though here in Chicago, you’d think otherwise. Brilliant, radiant sunshine, 70 degrees, sublime.

The sunshine is the tell, though. This time of year, the sun hits at flatter angles than it does in the summer. Lots of contrast, and the things that glimmered in July sun positively gleam this time of year.

Salute to the Royals.

And ten years ago, the sun never gleamed so brightly. I was working at an office on LaSalle Street, which happened to be the final leg of the 2005 White Sox World Series victory parade. Mayor Richard M. Daley, a stalwart White Sox fan, and never afraid to spend money on what he liked, made sure it was worthy of a moon landing or the end of a war.

I left my office, met Beth about halfway on her walk to help her navigate the throngs, and we walked until we got a good spot.

And there really were throngs. On the sidewalks, streets, and in upstairs office windows. And confetti. And that flat sunshine that made the confetti pieces explode into something that, well, to me, was not close to heaven. It was heaven.

Baseball is not like other sports. It  requires a greater commitment from its fans. Even casual baseball fans live through more grief and more joy and more of everything than devoted fans of other sports. Baseball, compared to other sports, is like reading a difficult book—one that tests you page after page, and is still worth it.

Reaching the parade point requires a lot of work, a lot of great defensive plays, a lot of great at-bats, a lot of great pitching (like, say, four complete games in the American League Championship Series in 2005) and at least some luck. It’s harder than hell.

And so, on this glorious day while the sun still glints, before I go into delirium tremens because there is no baseball to watch, I tip my White Sox cap to the Kansas City Royals, 2015 World Series Champions.