An open letter to Michael Wilbon:
You know I love you. And that's why I'm begging you not to wrap yourself in the flag of the Chicago White Sox -- as you did yesterday on "PTI" by wearing an idiotic White Sox jersey. Believe me, that is not a flattering outfit unless you're trying to look like a tablecloth.
Everybody here knows you're a Cubs fan. Everybody here knows what a phony you'd be to glom onto the White Sox now -- simply just because, conveniently, they're winning -- after dismissing them for years. I, too, come from a city where there are two baseball teams, the Yankees and Mets. I was a Mets fan. I rooted for the Mets. I didn't root for the Yankees just because they got into the playoffs. I spit on the Yankees. It's a little thing most of us like to call integrity. I've got a number you can call if you want some.
The White Sox are not your team. You wouldn't know Scott Podsednik if he knocked on your door and announced: "Wilbon, I'm Scott Podsednik. Kiss me."
Don't take the readers on a tour of the Chicago of your youth and pretend Comiskey had anything to do with it. You're a Wrigley guy; you and the other yuppies wandering blotto on Waveland Avenue. Don't try reminiscing about what Al Lopez, Minnie Minoso and Sherm Lollar meant to you. They meant nothing to you. The only thing you know about White Sox is that you don't wear them with dark pants.
For years you've tortured everyone in Washington with tales of rapture for Ernie Banks, Ferguson Jenkins and Ron Santo. We've indulged you because the Cubs stank so bad for so long that your personal woe seemed charmingly pathetic. You can't neatly transfer that account to the White Sox just because they're in Chicago and they've stunk for almost as long as the Cubs. One team per customer, pal. You've got the Cubs. You and your boy, Bartman.