On this Bloomsday, it’s time to marinate in Mariners hate, as the Sox slump into Seattle licking their wounds like Bloom on the beach. There is nothing Joycean about this season, no epic of the single day, even though each game seems to spread out into a stream-of-consciousness flow of frustration, lingering and unspooling unto loss after loss after loss. As the man said, the soul of the White Sox is the cracked lookingglass of the servant.
But now we’re talking about Seattle, last year’s darling, and anecdotally, one of the three favorite “second teams” for White Sox fans.