They began to gather in the parking lot across from US Cellular Field almost as soon as the last out was recorded. The young, the old, the black, the white, the brown, – Chicagoans of every size, shape and color streamed toward the site as if on a pilgrimage to Lourdes.

They came despite a cold, steady, soaking rain that seemed a metaphor for the entire event as 88 years of absolute and utter baseball futility was washed away by a tide of powerful emotions, sweeping through the city like rampaging flood waters hell bent on destroying all the fruitless years of dashed hopes, bitterness, and betrayal.

The Chicago White Sox are World Series champions.

The significance was not lost on some of us who recall that the parking lot gathering place was in fact the site of old Comiskey Park , torn down more than a decade ago to make room for the new ball yard but still a sacred site for White Sox fans whose allegiance extends back through the decades. The ghosts of Luke Appling, Chico Carrasquel, Shoeless Joe, Eddie Collins, and the rest can be at peace now. Their futility has been redeemed by the most remarkable team in the history of Chicago baseball. More remarkable than the 1969 Cubs team whose historic collapse in September allowed the “Miracle Mets” to make their own mark on the history books.

That team epitomized Chicago baseball; lovable losers. With the most beloved players in Chicago baseball history, including Billy Williams, Ron Santo, Don Kessinger, and the irrepressible Ernie Banks, the ‘69 Cubs team first confounded, then captured, and finally broke the hearts of Chicagoans by allowing a 9 1/2 game lead over the Mets on August 14 to dribble away to nothing until, in a final ignominious coda to that frustrating season, saw both the Mets and the St. Louis Cardinals pass them in September.

What does it say about a city that celebrated such utter failure? When toting up success in baseball, Chicagoans have always considered “the near miss” as good as winning. After all, when losing is the norm, people will go to great lengths to create the illusion of success. It gives meaning and purpose to life if, when waiting ‘till next year, you can spend that period between disappointment and hope fooling yourself into believing that there is a relationship between coming close one year and actually capturing the brass ring the next.

But baseball is a game designed to break your heart. The 1970 Cubs never even sniffed first place and finished far off the pace.

For the White Sox – the second team in the second city – no such nonsense was vouchsafed by its tough, working class fan base. The Cubs would still pack the “friendly confines” of Wrigley Field even if the Northsiders were the laughingstock of the league – as they usually were. Sox fans were much more discriminating and as a result, intolerant of losers. In fact, the teams were so bad at the end of the 1970’s and the falloff of fan support so precipitous, that serious consideration was given to the idea of moving the team to Florida. Only the last minute intervention by the a group headed up by current owner Jerry Reinsdorf kept the team in Chicago.

Now Reinsdorf and his club are world champions. And they did it last night by playing the kind of old-fashioned baseball that has had an enormous appeal to the cynical but hugely knowledgeable working class fans that have formed the basis of the team’s support since they came into being at the turn of the last century.

Casual fans of the game probably found last night’s 1-0 White Sox victory a bore. But for the purist, there is no more sublime example of the way the game should be played. Baseball is the only game where the defense has the ball which is why great pitching can overcome a multitude of sins and win championships. And last night’s pitchers, Garcia for the Sox and Backe for the Astros, proved the adage that the other team can’t win if they can’t score.

The tension engendered by a 0-0 baseball game is the most deliciously drawn out feeling in sports. As the game progresses, each pitch carries a significance far beyond the normal until by the late innings, one is sitting on the edge of their seat in unbearable anticipation of either uplifting triumph or devastating disaster. And by the eighth inning last night, both pitchers had the fans wrung out like a wet wash rag, whipsawed with emotion as every baserunner represented either victory or defeat.

The Astros buckled under the stress as they appeared to do throughout the last two games. After pitching seven brilliant innings, manager Ozzie Guillen lifted White Sox starter Freddie Garcia for a pinch hitter in the top of the eighth. Willie Harris then became the latest in a long line of unlikely White Sox heroes when, pinch hitting for Garcia, he singled sharply to left. Bunted to second by Scott Podsednik and sent to third on a ground out by Carl Everett, it was left to series MVP Jermaine Dye to single Harris home for the only run of the game.

Houston threatened to score in the eighth, but the threat was snuffed out on a nifty defensive play by shortstop Juan Uribe. Then in the ninth, following a broken bat single to center by Jason Lane and a sacrifice bunt, Uribe made two stellar plays to save the game. First, he literally dove into the fifth row of the stands along the left field line to catch a foul pop up off the bat of Chris Burke. And then, with the tying run on third base, pinch hitter Orlando Palmeiro topped a ball into the rock hard dirt in front of home plate causing the ball to bound high in the air and just over the glove of pitcher Bobby Jenks. As the ball landed 10 feet behind the pitcher’s mound, it looked like a sure infield hit to tie the score. But Uribe, streaking in from his shortstop position gloved the ball and in a blur of motion fired it with all his might to first to nip Palmeiro by half a step.

A fitting end to a marvelous game and stellar season for the Southsiders.

The victory was also something of a bittersweet moment for many of us whose first thoughts were for parents and grandparents who had already passed on and were unable to share the joy and fulfillment of a World Series triumph. Chicago baseball fans have become inured to the idea that such miracles will not occur in their lifetimes. So to see the dancing, celebrating players on the field brought a flood of memories of my own parents and grandparents who had handed down a love of the game and of the White Sox to many of their offspring. I’m quite sure that my father’s stoicism would have melted and a huge grin would have creased his face after that last out was recorded. And my other relatives who were as proud of the allegiance to the Sox as they were of their Irish heritage would have seen the victory as an occasion to celebrate. I’m quite sure the telephone wires would have been hot with calls between all of us as we each, in our own way, shared a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

But even those bittersweet thoughts will not dampen the enthusiasm for those of us whose loyalties lie with the baseball club from the Southside of Chicago. Perhaps in the spring when the mulberries are flowering and the dogwoods are blooming, I’ll pay a visit to some of their gravesides to tell them about it. After all, one thing that a long losing streak does is connect generations to a common goal; winning out in the end. And perhaps that’s the real lesson to be drawn from the team’s triumph.

Good things come to those who wait.