Inspirational Ineptitude

It’s official: the 2024 Chicago White Sox are the worst American professional sports team ever. As baseball’s regular season came to a close this past weekend, their record was an abysmal 41-121. They started the season 3-22, eventually breaking a 62-year-old record for most losses and tying the record of most consecutive losses after losing 21 games in a row. Out of the 30 teams in the league, they ranked dead last in home runs, batting average, hits, walks, RBIs, and on base percentage. Their best hitter, Andrew Vaughn, was just the 103rd ranked hitter in the league. Over the course of the season, opposing teams scored a collective 306 more runs than they did. When it comes to baseball, success is all in the numbers. Sadly, for the White Sox, the numbers don’t lie.

The losing was so routinely bad the White Sox social media accounts were obtuse when reporting final scores (e.g., “FINAL: the other team scored more runs than us”).

Having witnessed a team hit rock bottom so spectacularly, so publicly, perhaps the rest of us can breathe a little easier in our own failures. Did you turn in that TPS report late? Did your kid get a note sent home from the teacher? Did you fail that biochem midterm? And yet, despite what the numbers say, the White Sox have gained something a big-league success story could never provide: serenity.

One might think seeing their season turn to ashes would lead to bitterness between players and mutiny against the manager, but it seems the opposite has happened. Despite their epic failure of a season, the press reported that the players were surprisingly buoyant. “Shockingly well adjusted,” as ESPN’s Jeff Passan put it. Grady Sizemore, the interim manager, spoke of his players like a loving parent. “I’ve had the best relationship with these guys,” he said. “They’ve kind of given me a new life and a new love for the game. Just the way they responded since I’ve been in this position is one of the best feelings I’ve had.” After the Sox recently lost in a total meltdown of a game, starting pitcher Davis Martin was not seen throwing his glove, but chuckling to himself, telling reporters, “You have to have a sense of humor.”

Aren’t these men supposed to be single-mindedly driven athletes whose sole purpose is to entertain us with their success? But, at the cost of their pride, the team has been given things far greater in return: humility, joy, and gratitude to name a few. Through their suffering, the White Sox have an advantage over the rest of us. Ever since their greatest fear has been realized, they have somehow been freed from it. Yes, they are officially the worst team ever. They are a public laughingstock, the punch line of late-night comedians. Their striving for success has crashed and burned. Their honor is a pile of ashes.

And yet, in the wreckage of their reputation, they have been shown that all is not lost. In that sense, the team resembles Paul’s description of the early church in 2 Corinthians: “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (4:8–9). From the ruins of our broken dreams comes a life far sweeter than we could have possibly imagined. We are never more aware that God is all we need until God is all we have. It seems we are only brought to this place once our greatest fears have been realized.

The most profound sermon I have ever heard was by a seminary professor whose son had died. At the funeral, nobody knew how this man would have the capacity to speak publicly. The room held its breath as he stood up to speak. “Friends,” he said, “I have been to the bottom. And the bottom … is solid.” Those words echoed through every grieving heart as he sat back down. Somehow, in a meager twelve words, this man had fully articulated the fullness of God’s faithfulness despite all evidence to the contrary. His greatest fear had been realized, and yet God’s promise proved to be far greater.

The White Sox have given us something much more comforting than the Yankees’ 27 World Series championships ever could. We may love the glory and fanfare of winning, but winning does not describe most of our lives on a daily basis.  The glory of banners might be inspiring stuff for a mediocre movie, but such success breeds envy more often than not, if not shame at our own comparatively prosaic failures. Will Leitch recently wrote about the universal appeal of the 2024 White Sox: 

Besides being more memorable, losing is more relatable and far more familiar than winning. A finite few of us will ever understand what it’s like to be revered, to have tens of thousands of people chanting our name. But doing our best and falling short? Of being bested by a superior? Things not working out? We all know that feeling.

The White Sox may be the worst, but they are more like us than we would care to admit. We may feel like we need “a win,” but we need something far greater. We need someone to keep us company in the losses that come our way, someone to love us when we are down and out.

We may seek perfection, but perfection is cold comfort compared to the warmth of unconditional love. We don’t need heroes to emulate but a Savior who rescues us from our ineptitude. As nice as it is to sit on the mountaintop of victory, we can find a more blessed assurance in knowing that, should we ever hit bottom, the bottom is solid.