I’d like to congratulate the Chicago White Sox on their recent pennant victory.

Like I said, I’d like to but I can’t, because I’m a bitter, bitter Cubs fan. I think I speak for all of my Cubs-loving brethren when I say: crash and burn, White Sox, crash and burn.

By all rights, I should be a Sox fan. I was raised on the south side of Chicago, bastion of White Sox fandom. My grandfather tried to inculcate a love for the team by taking my brother and me to games all the time when we were kids, to no avail. There’s a tune called “South Side Irish” that’s sung during the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade on Western Avenue; one of the verses is, “When it comes to baseball/We’ve got two favorite clubs/The go-go White Sox/And whoever plays the Cubs.”

I clam up when it comes to that part of the song.

You see, I was born on the North Side, the citadel of Cubs fandom. It doesn’t matter that my family moved south when I was six; I took my life-size Ryne Sandberg poster into the heart of Sox country and swore allegiance to the Boys of Zimmer.

The Cubs were already in my blood, and there was no getting them out. You might as well ask a Capulet to become a Montague.

As a boy, I thought no team could compete with the ’89 Cubs, the year when the team won the National League Eastern Division. Who can forget titanic 6’7 pitcher Rick Sutcliffe, or Rookie of the Year Jerome Walton?

More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be a professional ball player.

My brother and I had it all planned out by the time grade school began: When we grew up, I would be the Cubs’ pitcher and he would be the catcher, and our folks would drive us to the game because we didn’t know the way to Wrigley Field.

Unfortunately, my mediocre little league career shattered that dream; hence, I’m in college.

While the Sox indeed have a superior team this year, I’m comforted by the fact that the Cubs still have the better stadium. Wrigley field is lush and homey; it looks and feels like a park.

The Sox’s stadium hurts my teeth just to see it; with blue plastic and concrete everywhere, it feels like being inside a space station. And the name – U.S. Cellular Field? The Cubs would never stoop so low as to let their park be named after a corporate – oh, wait. Never mind.

To be candid, I’m just getting into baseball again. The ’94 strike soured me on the sport for nearly 10 years; it was only in 2003, the Year of the Bartman, that I tentatively came back. And we all remember how that Cubs season turned out.

So while I’m happy for you White Sox fans, I can never be one of you.

It looks like a comfy bandwagon, but I have to be true to my roots. Nevertheless, you still might see me at a Sox game from time to time. I’ll be the guy in the left-field bleachers wearing glasses, Walkman headphones and a Cubs hat, leaning over the railing with an open baseball mitt and a head full of dreams.

Columns reflect the opinion of the author and not necessarily that of the Northern Star staff.