The Perseid meteor shower reaches its peak this week, and bursts of light streak far above Chicago’s amber glow. It’s time for White Sox fans to count their baseball blessings.
I, for one, am grateful for the hearty smell of onions and sausage on a hot griddle. I’m grateful for the milk and cookies voice of Gene Honda echoing from the loudspeakers. I’m grateful that we play in the worst division in professional sports, because it makes even our abysmal performance seem mediocre by comparison.
Most of all, it’s a damned blessing that we have Andrew Vaughn, whose quiet leadership and steady performance have helped make a bad season better.