The 2010 Chicago White Sox season ended on a Sunday in May in New York City. I know, because I was there.
Separating fact from fiction, and fiction from meta-fiction.
If you’re going to believe in sports, you might as well believe in something ridiculous.
With just over a week left until Opening Day, we might as well get this out of the way.
Your busy editor thinks the Twins’ loss is everyone else’s loss, and that Gordon Beckham is the logical heir to the Robinson Cano fortune.
They’re only sleepers if you didn’t see them coming.
Coming soon to a sports page near you.
Our former president once joked that C students could one day become president themselves, to which your editor asks: why bother with politics when you could be the next Ken Vining? Part five in a series.
Even when there are two, there can be only one, and you already know who it is. Part four in a series.
At the decade’s end, it really only matters what you value. Hilarity, for example, can be a reasonable substitute for pride. Part three in a series.
When are 96 wins no better than 90, and when are they even worse than 89 (which were technically 88 in the first place)? When you’re the Chicago White Sox, that’s when. Part two in a series.
The Sox’ newest arm is also their oldest.
True greatness knows not the confinement of halls nor shall it be caged by the rules and whims of men; rather, let greatness roam free; free to grow and prosper for all of eternity.
In the wake of the Sox signing Omar Vizquel, The 35th Street Review checks in on the 1998-2009 Chicago White Sox’ quest to become the 1995-1999 Cleveland Indians.
It’s not who you think it is, but it’s exactly who it should be. Part one of a series.
