Lincicome: Sell the team? To whom? And why bother?

The rumor is that White Sox fans are unhappy, old news if news at all. Misery is the price of devotion to Sox World. Calluses are accumulated, resentments hoarded, and umbrage taken.

Perpetual disappointment numbs any real anger, saved for when it is needed, for when the Cubs succeed.

So the recent chant of "sell the team," directed at the octogenarian owner, I suppose, is not a demand as much as a suggestion. You know, if you can you get around to it, Jerry.

It has been worse than this, better, too, and not unusual at all. That's fine in Sox World, a serene place of peace where ambition is a tease and worth 14 points in Scrabble.

The Sox do not defy the odds because the odds have never applied to the Sox, never even considered the Sox. The Sox provide reassuring comfort, like flowers at a funeral, usually their own.

Sox fans are free of the stresses of purpose. Goals cause concern rather than comfort, worry instead of reassurance, anxiety instead of calm. Sox fans know that the simple shrugs of sympathy are better than the bitter groans of cruel regret.

Jerry Reinsdorf knows this, counts on this, and instead of resenting the chairman, Sox fans ought to appreciate Reinsdorf's awareness and insight into the soul of, not only his teams but all of Chicago sports.

Chicago is a place that settles, is happy for an every-other generational surprise, a place that celebrates the once-in-a-lifetimers until they die off. The most notable sports event in Chicago is the team reunion.

Sell the team. Fire the manager. Run out a grounder. Be happy in your work. Pick a song.

At a recent and rare public occasion, Reinsdorf offered the truth as he sees it and as he contributes to it, being, as he is, the overlord of both the sad sack Sox and the botched Bulls, and the hand-holder of much public emotion.

"Sports is a business of failure," Reinsdorf offered, "but the fact that you finish second or third or fourth doesn't mean you had a bad year."

Aim low, boys, the sky's off limits.

Reinsdorf was speaking in California at a conference called to discuss "The New Business of Sports," a curious subject for an opinion from Reinsdorf, since he treats both his public trusts like toy trains.

Evidence of this, of course, was the sentimental recovery of Tony La Russa, like an old plaything in the attic who was dusted off and allowed to tarnish his own substantial legend, though La Russa did for a while exactly what he was meant to do, make the Sox suspiciously competitive.

"While they (fans) want you to win championships," Reinsdorf said, "they want to know that when they get down to the last month of the season, you still have a shot, you are still playing meaningful games."

Just get me to August, boys, that's why we invented playoffs.

For your favorite team to play below expectations is the expectation, a kindness. Hearts will remain unbroken; comfort is in the standings, second, third, fourth, you know, anywhere but first.

Any owner who is not unhappy to lose is still the owner, and fans demanding he care as much about his team as they do seems not too much to expect. The Ricketts family managed to get one moment of glory from the Cubs, and while more was expected, it always is. The Cubs are still the Cubs.

The McCaskey family fumbles around with new furniture and old results, no matter what may happen in the suburbs or on the lakefront with the Bears. New ownership is unlikely until the McCaskeys run out of heirs. The Bears will be the Bears and still treasured.

The Sox? Much the same. Tolerated and endured, painless and pointless. The Sox were the Sox before Reinsdorf.

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere; and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing; and little children shout; But there is no joy at Sox Park, just more of the same.

Sell the team? To whom? And why bother.