Some friends from Iowa called me Wednesday night at 11 p.m. and said they just heard a tremendous noise outside. They opened their front door and were confronted with a thunderous chorus of yelling, screaming and cheering, all emanating from the surrounding cornfields. They asked me if I knew what it was about, but because they were from Iowa, I didn’t feel I could get them to understand.
I have written previously that I couldn’t buy into this White Sox team because it lacked the offense to get into the World Series, let alone win it. Well, the Sox stiffened their backs at the end of the season and proved me wrong, and I have to be man enough to admit it.
However, there is one thing about which I am not wrong. I absolutely know, without a doubt, that somewhere, someplace, there is a special place for baseball in heaven, and up there, right at this moment, Shoeless Joe Jackson and Buck Weaver are smiling.
