The death of a White Sox fan

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On Sunday, July 18 at approximately 2 PM a White Sox fan passed away. The death was unexpected; I did not see it coming. I knew something had happened, though, as I wandered around without direction. There was no bright light, no soothing hand motioning, nothing at all that could be described as comforting. When Ken Williams put down the receiver, surely just seconds before Omar Minaya burst into tears of joy, he delivered that fatal blow that killed this White Sox fan.

I must admit that being dead feels strange. I think I might be one of those "lost souls." You hear stories about those spirits that just wander the earth aimlessly searching for something. Maybe the transformation of the sweltering summer heat into the rapidly declining autumn chill will revive me. The only hope may be a breakout season from Corey Dillon and a repeat performance from the New England Patriots. I bet that would bring me back to life.

But until then, I'm like the ghost of Kwai Chang Caine. I just wander the earth.

Even though I am no longer among the living White Sox fans, I have been able to discover a few things. I know how I died. I believe I was murdered. More accurately, it was probably manslaughter. I do not think Ken Williams was trying to kill me. He is just reckless and never should have been given a weapon. I am no law expert, but I think one needs to prove motive to be sure of murder. That is my current problem: this was just a senseless act of violence.

I have a feeling that even the esteemed Dr. Henry C. Lee could not dig up enough forensic evidence to explain this one. Sure, the smoking gun is in the hands of Ken Williams. His defense could just use a temporary insanity plea. Maybe that is the truth. In fact, the more I wonder about my tragic demise I become convinced that my death was just the result of an out-of-control lunatic. I do not know if there have been any other casualties, but for the White Sox organization one should be enough.

What saddens me most (other than being dead, of course) is that all of this was preventable. White Sox fans everywhere suffered when Frank Thomas revealed he could no longer hop, jump, step, dance, or even walk without pain. But Sox fans are tough - it takes more than The Big Hurt living up to the nickname to discourage a Championship Season.

Rumors of a savior swirled. My killer was supposed to bring in some lefty lumber to bolster an already potent offensive attack. The name of our future Sox star (though likely just for a few months, before the mercenary hero moved on to his next destination) could have been Palmeiro, Catalanotto, Olerud, Burnitz, Finley, Stairs, or Simon. If Ken Williams had pulled the trigger on one of those, the bullet would have surely penetrated the flesh of the Minnesota Twins. Instead, Williams misfired with a man named Carl. He killed one of his own.

When a person dies, even if apparently unconscious, one is still aware of his or her surroundings. I distinctly remember the doctors talking as I drifted from this mortal coil. It was not cardiac arrest, brain hemorrhaging, or internal bleeding that did me in. As the doctor said, "He died from sheer and utter stupidity."

Before I died, I knew a few things. I knew that dinosaurs really did once wander the earth. I also knew that Carl Everett is probably the worst player the White Sox could have acquired. I wish I could have asked somebody a few questions before I passed. If I could ask them now, I would. How can a man that can not hit, run, throw, or field help the White Sox win a World Series in 2004? I suppose that is the only question, but it brings to mind a few other things.

The aforementioned hurting Hurt, without a doubt the best offensive player in the history of the franchise, will be looking for a job in 2005. The man who took my life does not like the big fellow. He does like Sir Carl. I am pretty sure he loves Mr. Everett like a brother or a son. One man in, one man out. Farewell, Frank Thomas. Ken Williams is going to kill you, too. That will be intentional and pre-meditated.

So what becomes of me? I think I am going to head West. I have seen and heard marvelous things about a land of Oak. In this prosperous place, the man in charge is wise. He is crafty and bold. He preaches a different brand of baseball. He did not draft a relief pitcher over Joe Blanton, the next big thing in the art of the pitch. He did not give up five players in two seasons for a washed-up has-been. He did not acquire a Billy Goat of a pitcher with a plummeting firearm. All this wise man has done is built a winner for the last half of a decade. He is admirable. He is strong. He might be the only one that could bring me back to life!

So I'm off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of A's. Kenny Williams may have taken my life. He may have made the single-worst trade he could have made. He may have brought a terrible player and terrible human being to the South Side of Chicago. But I am rejuvenated! I have found my calling. I have found a second chance on life! Thank you, Billy Beane. You have saved my soul.