There’s no way to truly comprehend the White Sox’ incredible futility
The question of whether the White Sox are the worst team in the history of baseball is still pending and still possible, there being no advantage to the distinction.
Still, when one thinks of the great failures of history, the mind finds them easily enough, notably the Titanic, of course, Apollo 13 and, alas, Trump Steaks, innocent props that they were.
Recalling the words of JFK that victory has 100 fathers and defeat is an orphan, the White Sox are up for adoption, which may be the plan all along.
All that is clear is that the White Sox play as if they wish they were somewhere else.
Reminders of how awful the Sox are can be found, adjectives running from appalling to hopeless, the season from nightmarish to dreadful, prospects from forlorn to bleak and ownership from heartless to calculating.
It takes a thesaurus (remember those?) to get through headlines or podcasts when the item is the Sox and their latest debacle — see, there is another one, and I did not have to share it with Mr. Roget.
My personal favorite was “classic dumpster fire,” though I don’t remember from whom or from where, or whether it referred to one game, the season or to one of the Sox’ impressive losing streaks.
The general piling on of the White Sox is earned, but it feels kind of half-hearted, without real eagerness, rather a chore with no real enthusiasm.
Other sports teams that have been this woeful (got you again, Mr. Roget) carried with them a bit of romance. I think of the Cubs and their lost century and inevitably they were identified as “lovable losers,” or the Mets, fondly “amazin’” from the start when they set the losing record the Sox are chasing.
Classic among the summaries of futility was that of Tampa Bay football coach John McKay who was asked about the execution of his offense. “I’m in favor of it,” McKay said.
No such happy irony for the White Sox, not lovable nor amazin’ nor even with a catchy nickname, like the “Aints” for the Saints or “Dem Bums” for the old Brooklyn Dodgers.
Once the Cubs were the “Flubs,” but only briefly and yet remained persistently cuddly. Blame it on ageless Wrigley Field, whereas the White Sox must suffer the comfortable banality of functioning plumbing.
There is about the Sox the cheerless burden of a Willie Loman, out there without the smile or the shoeshine. But, then, nobody shines shoes anymore.
There should be by now some sort of identifying moniker for such continuous failure. The White Sox already have one of direst names of all time, of course, referring back to the fixed World Series.
But Black Sox is too unsuitable for these times, for any time really, so let’s leave it back in the bin of history, in time’s dumpster if you will, though I am considering what to call the next great gambling scandal to hit sports. It is coming as sure as the signage in the outfield.
I have seen the “Slight Sox,” not bad but a little too forgiving. The “Blight Sox?” Too cruel even for this bunch.
The “Sad Sox” might work, or the “No No Sox,” or the “Oh No Sox,” a play on the once congenial designation for the 1959 “Go Go Sox” or “Losing Ugly,” a play on the 1983 description of “Winning Ugly,” which referred to the style of play and to the style of uniform, both accepted with affection.
We can’t go all the way back to 1906 and the “Hitless Wonders,” though it does apply, leaving off the wonder part.
My point here is it is doubtful that these White Sox will become the standard for losing even if they become the standard for losing because they are doing it without style, without identifiable appeal, without any of the requirements of lasting prominence.
The White Sox just muddle on game to game collecting no kindness along the way, ciphers without sympathy, loafing from play to play, joyless and anonymous.
Sad Sox. Yeah, that might work, huh, Mr. Roget?