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So are there still people out there who refuse to believe that dreams come true? The great poet John Milton once wrote, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Yes, he was not thinking of the Chicago White Sox, still almost 250 years in the future, but the statement holds true today. The White Sox are World Champions, 88 years after their last championship, 86 years after the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, 46 years after their most recent appearance in the World Series.

And, oh, how we have stood and waited-we White Sox fans. Waited for the curse of Shoeless Joe to be lifted, waited quietly, suffering silently if not patiently, befitting Milton’s suggestion. Yes, I rooted for the Red Sox last year and rejoiced in the destruction of one curse, the end of one championship drought. But the Red Sox were an adopted favorite, not the team of my childhood, not the true team of my heart.

It was the White Sox I listened to on the radio when I was growing up on a farm in southwestern Wisconsin, with Chicago our “big city” – the city of broad shoulders, the windy city. Night after night, my father would come in from milking cows and sit down at the radio in the kitchen, lean his head into one of his hands, and listen to the game until he dozed off. We talked endlessly about those White Sox and whether they would ever win: second baseman Nellie Fox, my baseball hero; shortstop Luis Aparicio, from Venezuela, home of current Sox manager Ozzie Guillen; outfielder Minnie Minoso; flamboyant owner Bill Veeck; aging ace Early Wynn; stylish lefthander Billy Pierce. The names, the faces, even their baseball statistics are as alive for me today as they were five decades ago. We hoped, and in 1959, our hopes seemed about to be realized.

The White Sox hammered the Los Angeles Dodgers 11-0 in the first game of the 1959 World Series. Could this truly be happening? Unfortunately, the answer was no, not yet, not for almost half a century. In the eighth inning of game two, the White Sox trailed the Dodgers 4-2 when Al Smith hit a double, driving in one run, but catcher Sherman Lollar, possibly the slowest runner in baseball, was thrown out at home plate with what would have been the tying score. Hundreds of times I have relived that play in my memory. The White Sox never recovered, dropping the Series four games to two.

Over these many years I kept wishing, but, in truth, I had almost given up. As the White Sox saw their gigantic lead melt away to a game and a half this summer, I despaired. My wife would find me muttering in the back yard tearing leaves into little pieces. I had hoped against hope these many years. I had offered my first born if only the White Sox could win a World Series (sorry, Brendan, but we all have priorities). Ok, so I am exaggerating a bit here, but only a bit.

With the White Sox leading Houston three games to none in the Series, I finally let myself believe enough to pick up a bottle of champagne on my way home. Could the White Sox, even laboring under the curse of Shoeless Joe, actually lose four games in a row? Reason said not likely, but confidence comes hard after all these years.

I watched, I paced, unable to sit still. Then that ground ball, the smooth scoop by shortstop Juan Uribe, whom I had vilified repeatedly for his inability to hit in the clutch, and the White Sox were world champions. The dream became reality. Never has champagne tasted so good. Of course, I donned my White Sox cap to drink it. These things must be done right.

So why do we care so much about baseball championships? My wife says insanity, shaking her head sadly. Maybe so. Yet, I think there is more. Perhaps, it has a lot to do with our youth, with moments we have shared with our parents and that we share with our own children, with the power of hoping and dreaming, with loyalty, with wanting that happy ending that so often eludes us in (dare I say it?) real life. If only all of those who also waited and hoped could share in that dream, like a father listening to game after game in the evening, like an over-achieving second baseman from the Fifties. So here’s to the White Sox, and once again to the Red Sox, and may the Cubs be not far behind.

Edward J. Rielly is a Westbrook resident, English professor at Saint Joseph’s College, and widely published author with two books on baseball and American culture.