The rise of Pope Leo XIV to the head of the Roman Catholic Church has sent ripples far beyond the usual realms of religion and geopolitics. For millions of Catholics, his election in 2025 marked a significant milestone in their generation. For Chicagoans, particularly those hailing from the South Side, it brought something else entirely. This was not just a new pope. This was one of their own. A White Sox fan. A real one. Not the kind who wears a hat because it matches the outfit, but the kind who sat through the soul-numbing midseason slogs, who knows the sting of a bullpen collapse, and who lived and breathed every inning of that miraculous 2005 World Series run, a victory that ended an 88-year championship drought. For the first time in history, baseball had a place in the Vatican. It had a seat near the papal throne.
It began with a photograph. A grainy snapshot from Game 1 of the 2005 World Series, showing a middle-aged priest in the crowd at U.S. Cellular Field. The man, intensely focused on the game, was Robert Prevost, a Chicago-born clergyman on the rise within the Augustinian order. At the time, he was unknown to the wider baseball world. But two decades later, that same man would become Pope Leo XIV. And with his elevation came the unearthing of a truth that surprised the devout and delighted the baseball faithful in equal measure: this pope loves baseball.
Not in an abstract way, not as a distant observer. He knows the infield fly rule. He knows when a balk is called. He has suffered through late-inning collapses, cheered for rookies, groaned at managerial blunders, and celebrated walk-offs with the kind of wild joy that only sports can conjure.
For many outside the Church, papal elections are fascinating but remote affairs. The inner workings of the conclave remain steeped in secrecy and ritual. Yet with Leo XIV, the mystery was broken in an instant when fans and journalists discovered his lifelong allegiance to the White Sox. Social media ignited with disbelief and delight. Was it true? Could the successor to Peter have spent his formative years praying for Konerko home runs and Mark Buehrle complete games? Confirmation came swiftly. His brother John appeared on Chicago television and categorically shut down speculation that the pope might have once rooted for the Cubs. “He was never, ever a Cubs fan,” John declared. “He was always a Sox fan.” And just like that, the Vatican found itself embraced by South Side pride.
Within days, a wave of affection rolled through White Sox Nation. A billboard appeared outside Guaranteed Rate Field that read, “Hey Chicago, He’s a Sox Fan.” Photos surfaced of Pope Leo wearing a Sox cap over his zucchetto during a public audience in St. Peter’s Square. A video clip of him signing a baseball for a pilgrim who dared to ask, only after confirming the man was not a Cubs fan, went viral. Reporters marveled at how easily the new pope slipped into banter about the team. This was not a rehearsed talking point. This was part of who he was. In a moment of spiritual significance, the eternal merged with the everyday. Baseball, that great American secular liturgy, had found its champion in the world’s most prominent cleric.
For Chicago’s South Side, which has long carried a chip on its shoulder in contrast to the glitz and self-regard of the North Side and its Wrigleyville glamour, the pope’s loyalty felt like a divine validation. The White Sox are not the team of bandwagoners. Their fans do not demand attention. They endure. They persist. They remember the lean years and wear their devotion like a badge of gritty honor. That the pope came from this tradition did not just feel like trivia. It felt like justice.
As the Vatican adjusted to its newly anointed baseball fan-in-chief, speculation spread that the team might finally be blessed. After all, who could be better positioned to intercede for the Sox than the Vicar of Christ? White Sox manager Will Venable smiled when asked about it. General Manager Chris Getz joked that perhaps some higher power was now paying attention, considering the team’s unexpected string of wins in the week following the papal announcement. The Chicago clubhouse buzzed with playful superstition. Players crossed themselves more often. A few made jokes about being excommunicated if they were caught watching the Cubs. One reporter asked if the pope might offer a benediction for the bullpen. The silence that followed was more telling than any answer. Even the pope, it seems, cannot work miracles that involve middle relief.
This moment has not only reshaped the image of the Church but has also expanded the space where faith and fandom intersect. It is easy to see religion as detached from ordinary life, floating in the realm of theology and ceremony. But Pope Leo XIV, in revealing his deep love of baseball, has reminded people that spirituality need not be sterile. Joy is holy.
Camaraderie is sacred. Hope, whether born in a cathedral or a ballpark, is transformative. And baseball, with its agonizing slowness and bursts of ecstasy, is a perfect metaphor for the life of faith. You wait. You endure. You believe without proof. And then sometimes, against all odds, you win.
The pope has not made baseball part of his official ministry. He does not preach about batting averages or sabermetrics. But his authenticity, his human side, has humanized an institution that often feels distant and austere. People who once saw the Vatican as a cold monument to hierarchy are now imagining it with the soft buzz of a radio broadcast in the background and the clinking of beer bottles echoing from the stands. The pope might not be tuning in every night, but you can picture him glancing at the scores and sighing when the Sox give up five runs in the seventh.
In the grand sweep of Church history, Pope Leo XIV’s baseball fandom may seem like a footnote. But stories matter, and symbols speak volumes. A pope who loves baseball is a pope who understands the value of waiting, suffering, and holding onto hope. He is a fan not because the team always wins but because the game matters. Because belief, at its core, is irrational, persistent, and unwavering. His love for baseball is a testament to his understanding of these values, and it resonates with people who find solace and inspiration in the game.
Still, no matter how deep that belief runs, even divine intervention has its limits. As one Chicago columnist quipped, God might forgive sins, but He hasn’t forgiven the White Sox’s front office. Their 2024 season saw 121 losses, a historic low point that even papal prayers could not lift. If the pope has a hotline to the divine, it has not yet produced a competent closer. And so we arrive at the joke whispered from dugouts to dioceses alike. The pope may be infallible in matters of doctrine, but when it comes to saving the White Sox, not even heaven can fix that bullpen.
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