The newest Pope, Pope Leo XIV, is a Chicago native and, as importantly, a long-time fan of the Chicago White Sox. Before Pope Leo, things had not gone well for the White Sox. Over the last three seasons, they won 162 games and lost 324. In 2024, they set a major league record, losing more games in a season than any team in the 150 years of baseball history.
But in this first full season of Leo’s papacy, the White Sox have turned it around. They are leading AL Central division and are six games over .500. As my friend Robert says, “I’m not going to say the Pope blessed this team, but I’m not going to say he didn’t.”
All of this leads us an in-person account of a special night in Chicago by Sam and Robert Bloch.
A nun threw the first pitch. It was not your usual White Sox game.
This was Pope Hat Night — a celebration of the world’s most revered, important, and above all, Connected White Sox fan. (We Chicagoans respect connections.)
Tonight, you didn’t have to be a guy who knows a guy to score a papal vestment — a black-and-gold polyester miter, otherwise known as a White Sox Pope Hat.
Typically, Sox giveaways are reserved for the first 10 or 15,000 fans. But Divine Intervention led the notoriously cheap owner Jerry Reinsdorf to unlock his financial chastity belt and hand out 40,000.
A hat alone does not a Pope make. The stadium grounds were overrun by fans clad in robes and cassocks. On the concourse, we spotted a clutch in Sox jerseys — or rather, a conclave, distinguished by the miter’s hanging black flaps, called lappets. These Holy Men were debating the important theological and spiritual question, “Is the Pope a Miller Lite guy or does he prefer Old Style?”
A lucky 5,000 fans additionally donned white Pope Leo #14 jerseys — given to those who purchased special tickets.
And they all stood to watch Sister Mary Jo Sobieck of the Dominican Sisters of Springfield, Illinois throwing out the first pitch with a high heater.
The stadium was awash in the hat’s black-and-gold twin peaks, removed only during the national anthem and during play so the guy behind you can see the action.
With attendance near capacity, this had all the makings of a night in which much “Holy Water” would be consumed.
The Sox struck first with a leadoff homer, leaping off the bat of Brenton Doyle (an Irish Catholic?). Edgar Quero (a Latino Catholic?) followed with a solo shot in the second, and Miguel Vargas (probably Catholic?) was third on the board when he knocked in a two-run shot in the bottom of the fourth.
The first-place Sox had jumped out to a 4-0 lead and the fans were loving it.
In the Jewish tradition, it’s customary to ask why this night is different from all other nights. Most nights, fans catch foul balls. But on this night, they had the Holy Spirit.
That changed in the fifth inning. All season long, the scrappy Sox celebrated homers with a Wizard’s hat and wand in the dugout. But tonight, they broke the spell — Vargas doffed a miter instead.
Big mistake. Baseball is a game of superstitions. When something wacky is working, don’t change it. Not even for the Pope.
The lowly Reds — dwelling near the bottom of the NL Central — scored one in the fifth and three in the eighth to tie the game.
Apparently unaware of the dugout sacrilege, the Sox fans never lost faith in the Pope to perform another act of divine intervention and put the team over the top.
His Holiness has already delivered the Sox’s best season in years. Two seasons after setting the modern record in baseball futility, the Sox were in first place. And tonight, they were facing the Reds. This was a game they were destined to win.
Perhaps the Pope had been unimpressed by the pagan team’s sudden conversion.
In extra innings, the Reds took the lead with two sacrifice flies to move the holy spirit — a phantom runner — home. (Sacrifice: Catholic. Faith in phantoms, too.)
In the bottom of the tenth, a glimmer of hope was restored. The home crowd turned their miters upside down into rally caps. Sox rookie Sam Antonacci bravely fouled off pitch after pitch, bringing the crowd to their feet, before striking out swinging.
Then it was over. Our brief sojourn as believers came to a close. Us Jews returned to our natural pessimistic state.
38,113 popes shuffled out of the stadium, into the night.
[Robert Bloch and I have been friends for 50 years. Consequently, I have know Sam Bloch for all of his years. For decades, Robert has been a loyal White Sox season ticket holder . Sam decamped to New York where he is a journalist and the author of the groundbreaking (non-baseball) book, Shade, The Promise of a Forgotten Natural Resource. While neither are Catholic, they may be considering their options if the White Sox’s Cinderella season continues.)
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