Hey Bryce,

Can we talk for a minute? I’ve got a few things on my mind.

Bro, look, let’s just be real about this: you need to come to Chicago. The south side needs a captain, we need a guy who we can all lean on like we did when Paul Konerko wore the C on his chest. We want that next guy to be you. We want that ultimate badass back on the southside, we need a hero, a villain, and a guy who will punish all non-believers. I mean, come on, you know you’d look sick in that black jersey.

I know the allure of the Dodgers is lovely, but consider the facts: you’re just a guy wearing a blue hat. Do you really think your bat is going to be the X-factor for a team who’s made it to the dance and lost twice? Do the math. You’re just another superstar to slip into Los Angeles, play for the Dodgers and realize quickly that LA isn’t a sports town, no matter how hard they try. Lebron chose the Lakers and look how that’s working out for him. Middling at best.

LA is filled with rich and famous people who leave ½ through a game, and you’re supposed to compete for attention in that town when Jennifer Aniston or Chris Rock is at a game? That’s the norm. Playing for the White Sox in Chicago, you’d be a motherfucking legend – not just a guy who slaps on a white jersey and hopes to beat the Angels twice a year. Text your dude Mike Trout and see if he’s going to commit to Southern California ball next year.

While LA will fill forget you because you’re not Tommy Lasorda or Sandy Koufax, we won’t. Guys who make their bones in Chicago are made for life. Aaron Rowand can’t get arrested in San Francisco or Philly, but the minute he comes to Chicago, a White Sox fan will get him blackout drunk as a thank you for his service to the south side. Manny Ramirez was on the shitheap when he suited up for us for a year, and you know what? A White Sox fan would still talk his ear off about that one garbage season. If you win a championship with the White Sox, you’ll never pay for a ribeye again. Look at any of the 1985 Bears, those dudes still live off that one-time glory.

I know you’ve got a love for the Yankees, but fuck them. Ok? Fuck them. They’ve had enough stars play don the pinstripes. Do you really want to deal with all of the bullshit it takes to be a Yankee? The media circus, shitty traffic, and then you’ll always be in some kind of pissing contest with Judge and Stanton about who’s in a slump or who’s the clubhouse cancer or whatever. Not in Chicago, though, nope. You can swing like dog shit for a month and you know what?

We’ll pat you on the back and buy you a Miller next time we see you out. Why? Because you’re our guy. We understand there are ups and downs because that’s model for most of our lives. The average White Sox fan is a blue collar, hard working fan. We don’t sugarcoat anything and we expect a winner on the field if we’re gonna drop the coin on buying a few dogs, some tall boys, and a new Harper shirt for the kid.

In New York, you’ll be a dime amongst the dozens, just another Bronx Bomber among a litany of ghosts you’ll never be able to exorcize. You’ll be a guest in the Judge’s quarters and play second fiddle to Stanton’s moonshots. And no matter what you do, you’ll never catch Mantle, Ruth, and Gehrig. Jeter may be the Captain, but even he’s just another dot in the pantheon of Yankee heroes. A-Rod, Gary Sheffield, Rivera – all legends, but none of their names are going in monument park.



Come to Chicago. We’ll amplify your star. Your homeboy Kris Bryant knows firsthand how we deify our ballplayers. Imagine what you could do for a passionate class of baseball fans on the south side, jaded from years of dismissal. We have an equally illustrious history: we’re one of the original MLB franchises and frankly, Shoeless Joe or Nellie Fox don’t get their due.



You could join Frank Thomas and Paul Konerko, Carlton Fisk and take your place as our Mantle, our Ruth, Gehrig or DiMaggio. It takes a village to raise a star and we have plenty of rising stars to surround you with. The Dodgers aren’t winning a ring next season, the Cubs don’t need you-you’re a “nice to have.”

Chicago is a world-class baseball city. The sport is etched into our bones. We’re born Cubs or White Sox fans. While, yes, we do live in the shadow of the Cubs, the White Sox fans are there, we’re just not coming in by the busload from Iowa or whatever flyover state those assholes in blue grew up in. Also, our pizza and hot dogs are light years better than that trash they serve in New York.

Bryce, you and the monolithic Scott Boras probably talk about your deal every day. About what your feelings are, who’s making what moves to get you. I can tell you this as someone who doesn’t have skin in the game except that the minute you sign, I’ll buy a jersey and scream my head off when I come up to see my White Sox in April:

The White Sox fans do not play. We live and die by our team and when we give you our hearts, you have it for life. We have a bunch of statues around the park because we respect dedication, loyalty, and staying true. We have a checkered past with up and down seasons, but the diehards never waivered. We’ve got a young squad that’s coming up and sooner rather than later, we’ll be the next Astros, Royals, or goddamn Cubs.

If you want fast money, you’ll get it. We’ve got the checkbook open. If you’re going to become a Cub, you’ll be another guy who wants to play at Wrigley and like Dodger fans, they’ll forget you; you might get a little respect when you leave town, but you’ll never be beloved. The Cubs won their series. They’re no longer this mythical beast, but just another big MLB team no different than Boston or the Yankees.

If you play for the White Sox, you’ll get that statue next to Konerko and Thomas. You’ll see your number hanging in the outfield, and you’ll make a fan base believe that we’re running down the hallway, ready to beat the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who dares enter the House that Harper Saved.