Memories of an all-time great White Sox winner
With the sad new of Bobby Jenks’ death from cancer at age 44, we have come together as a staff to do our part to remember him. Here our our memories of a White Sox legend, and please feel free to share your own in the comments.
Brian O’Neill
Some pitchers seem more (or possibly other) than human. Randy Johnson was a great and terrible machine. Greg Maddux was a wizard. Pedro Martínez was some kind of glitch, an impossibility.
But Bobby Jenks? For the overpowering nature of his stuff, for that insane, ahead-of-his-time fastball and the crippling breaking ball, he always seemed human. He was larger than life for a few years, but not apart from it.
Jenks was at the middle of the high point of the franchise, on the mound for the most important moment in White Sox history; Game 4 of the World Series, yes, but more importantly, Game 1. By Game 4 the Series was all but over; in Game 1, a century’s worth of nerves accompanied him to the mound with two outs in the eighth. Base loaded, Sox up a run. Jeff Bagwell at the plate. I was at a bar, and couldn’t swallow my beer; my whole body was turning inside out.
Elsa/Getty Images
Jenks was calm, but not removed. He seemed excited to be out there. And then he kept going upstairs, and blew one past the Hall-of-Famer on a 2-2 count. I don’t know if I’d ever shouted so loud in my life, a guttural “YES” that was relief and joy, but also confidence. The big kid has got this. His excitement and confidence added to my own.
He finished the ninth with another blistering strikeout, and then saved Game 4. And if that was it, that would have been enough.
That wasn’t it. Jenks pitched well for a few more years, at one point retiring 41 batters in a row, a record to that point. But all closers eventually turn human; time runs out. Jenks struggled, in baseball and life, but was never anything less than beloved.
It’s not fair. Baseball has a finite life; so does actual life. We know this, as sure as being born. Baseball is shorter for closers: Bright and explosive and on a razor’s edge, always on the brink of disaster. Life shouldn’t be. Bobby got a raw deal out of the devil’s bargain that is life.
How bright he burned in our memories doesn’t make up for it. It doesn’t satisfy the loss for his family, or the stretch of time he could have had to be happy. It doesn’t change the years that now will never exist, the moments that are already gone. Nothing can change what death decides to take.
But it also has meaning. Not everyone can make a stadium scream. Not everyone can make a bar roar. Not everyone can make Hall of Fame hitters look silly. Not everyone can make people, decades later, have their hearts broken by their death. Not everyone will have people, decades from now, talking about where they were when Ozzie brought in the big boy.
That’s not nothing. Bobby was human, and he paid an early and unfair price for being so. But his humanity brought joy, however briefly, to a lot of lives. There’s peace in there. There’s humanity.
Brett Ballantini
Among all the acts of prowess Jenks provided the White Sox in his short career — including a sneaky-potent rise as a buried-weapon closer at the end of 2005 and a consistent willingness to take the ball and leave every ounce of himself out on the mound in the ninth inning — it is the vulnerable moments, even the autumnal ones, that strike me today upon news of his passing.
Michael Ivins/Boston Red Sox/Getty Images
His very last saves as a White Sox closer came in Boston (both ends of a doubleheader on Sept. 4, 2010), and I was at Fenway Park to cover it. They were the 26th and 27th of his season, and almost immediately after the doubleheader Jenks felt forearm tightness that befuddled the White Sox and effectively shut him down for the season. The club was already moving on from Jenks, an offseason free agent, who was due/desiring his first big payday; the injury (along with a subpar-seeming season (4.44 ERA but 2.22 FIP!) torpedoed his market.
The other snapshot I have is of Bobby on his final day in the White Sox clubhouse, a month after those final saves. Players and staff were clearing everything out for the offseason, and Jenks wouldn’t be back. The onetime core clubhouse member was not only injured, but reduced to pariah status. He sat in his empty locker, watching the action, seeing his Chicago career disappear. He was spitting his chewing tobacco right on the carpet, a passive-aggressive show of disdain for a team that had taken to questioning and challenging him more than support him.
It is bittersweet that a player who was driven out of town and at times depressed the accelerator himself had an estrangement from a fan base who love him so dearly. But thank goodness he got to town for 2015 ceremonies and some 2024 time at the park, and bridges reconnected. It is certain Jenks will never be forgotten, as long as there is a Chicago White Sox.
Melissa Sage-Bollenbach
The news of Bobby Jenks’ passing at just 44 years old due to cancer is a hard one to hear, and one that resonates deeply for me, even if our interactions were limited to fleeting moments at fan fests or the distant view from the stands. It’s difficult to articulate the depth of sadness that accompanies the loss of someone who brought such immense joy and left an indelible mark on my collective memories. Jenks was more than just the dominant closer who slammed the door on the 2005 World Series; he was a symbol of a dream realized, a conduit for the kind of elation most of us South Siders had never experienced before. His powerful presence on the mound and the thrill he delivered in those unforgettable moments will forever ensure his legacy lives on. His joyous celebration in that final moment on the mound in 2005 will be etched in my heart and fandom for always. Rest in peace, big man!
Dante Jones
As a husky kid growing up, seeing a guy like Bobby is pretty relatable. He’s the first closer I remember watching. The way Ozzie called for him is still a signal I use today. Jenks was a power reliever before that was the standard. The man who finished the only World Series that matters in Chicago (this is for my dad, and my friend Jeremy.) Forty-four is far too young to go. Fuck Cancer.
Kristina Airdo
I was only about 10 years old when I first saw Bobby Jenks pitch for the Chicago White Sox, and it really puts life into perspective when you realize he wasn’t even 15 years older than I am. Every time Bobby came out to pitch for the Sox that season and beyond, I was always pumped because he didn’t necessarily fit the “mold” of a lanky MLB pitcher, but he was a big guy and threw straight gas, and he was damn good at it.
We all know how legendary he was in the 2005 Fall Classic, but Ozzie’s infamous call to the pen is probably up there in my favorite White Sox memories. Not only did it bring the South Siders one step closer to bringing home that glorious piece of metal for the first time in 88 years, but you knew that Jenks was coming out of the bullpen and it was obvious he had what it took to get the job done. And as a kid, I don’t think there was a better feeling than watching my favorite team succeed at the hands of one of my favorite players on the team.
For lack of a better way of saying it, cancer is straight up bullshit. It has affected all of us in some way shape or form, and I wish the best for Bobby’s family as they grieve a great man and father. It’s hard to get people to agree on much these days, especially White Sox fans — but all of us can agree that Bobby Jenks holds a special place in our hearts and will be missed dearly. Thank you, Bobby for providing so many of us with some of our favorite memories. Contrary to what ESPN may think, you were more than just a player on the roster. You were a South Side legend and will be remembered as one.