"Impossible is nothing," said the television as I waited for the game

to return on Fox. I hoped the commercial would prove true. We were so

close. People from Beverly, Mt. Greenwood, Bridgeport, Palos and

Oak Lawn, Ill. and the rest of the South Side of Chicago were so close to the promised

land.

A World Series means different things for different people. In New

York it's an expected conclusion to autumn. In Florida it's a cool thing

to win every now and then. In Pittsburgh it's unattainable. For the

South Side of Chicago, it's vindication.

I sat there, my nails bitten down to nubs, and watched the final

inning. Big Bobby Jenks came in to protect a razor thin one run lead. The

South Side sat at home or at a bar or in a restaurant hoping that

impossible is nothing.

For so long we'd been told that we'd never see a world championship.

In many ways the White Sox is the fat kid on the playground that gets

picked on day in and day out without any hope of fighting back. This

season, just maybe, the fat kid strikes back.

One out. Two to go. A World Series in Chicago, how would we handle it?

Most people would say it's just a game. Then again, Chicago baseball

teams, especially those on the South Side, don't usually get this far. So

it's something larger than baseball for the South Side. It's about

respect.

Two outs. One to go. When most people think baseball in Chicago they

think the Cubs. It's sad, but true. The White Sox have long been banned

from the mainstream in Chicago. We're second class citizens in the

Second City. We're that out-of-work cousin in the family no one talks

about. What does a World Series mean to the South Side of Chicago? It means

that cousin gets a 9-5 job. My thoughts were interrupted by Joe Buck.

"Juan Uribe throws to first and he's oooooouuuuutttt. And The Chicago

White Sox are world champions." Wait. Let it sink in. Now jump! We won!

The fat kid slugs the bully, the out-of-work cousin lands a job with

benefits and three weeks vacation, second class citizens no more. They

have to respect us now. They have no choice. We are the last team

standing.

Fox immediately swung coverage to the South Side of Chicago. Now you

knew it was more than a game. It brought total strangers out of their

homes to share a moment of pure joy. Cop cars blew their sirens.

Firefighters honked their horns. Kids screamed and yelled and jumped.

This wasn't baseball. It was respect. Respect for the red-headed step

child. Respect for everyone that's ever had to say, "I'm a Sox fan," on

the El or in a cab or at a job interview.

So on one unforgettable October evening the stars aligned over

Chicago's southern half. The fat kid beat up the bully, the cousin got a job,

the red-headed step child got a toy for Christmas and from Longwood to

Harlem, 167th to 35th streets, impossible was nothing.