In a year overflowing with outrage, division, and wild headlines, the most honest sports moment didn’t come from a championship parade or a buzzer-beater. It came from the Vatican.
When the world learned that Pope Leo XIV is a lifelong Chicago White Sox fan, the reaction was immediate and unmistakable: joy. Pure, uncomplicated joy. And for once, the internet agreed on something.
It became the most viral sports moment of the year; not because it was engineered, branded, or monetized at launch, but because it was real. A Pope from Chicago. A Pope who knows pain, loyalty, and patience. A Pope who understands what it means to stick with your team. Did anyone expect anything less?
Baseball has always been America’s quiet evangelist. It teaches faith without preaching it; faith in tomorrow’s game, faith in the long season, faith that showing up still matters even when the standings say otherwise.
So when Pope Leo’s baseball fandom began spilling into public view, it didn’t feel gimmicky. It felt inevitable.
Here was the leader of the Catholic Church speaking, joking, smiling, and living in a language millions already understood. His White Sox allegiance didn’t trivialize the papacy; it humanized it. In a time when religious and political ideologies are constantly weaponized, baseball slipped through the cracks and reminded us of something simpler: we are all fans of something bigger than ourselves.
What followed was surreal in the best way.
Relishing the Cubs playoff loss from the Popemobile. Donning a White Sox hat inside Vatican walls. Signing baseballs for pilgrims. Joining chants. Receiving jerseys, bats, and memorabilia, including a game-used bat from White Sox legend Nellie Fox.
Former Royals star Mike Sweeney presented him with a jersey. Cardinals chairman Bill DeWitt Jr. made a Vatican visit bearing gifts. White Sox great Paul Konerko exchanged a symbolic “14 to 14” tribute honoring the 2005 championship. Even a Topps card shattered non-sports sales records. Bobbleheads were announced. Graphic installations appeared. A stadium Mass at Rate Field became appointment viewing.
And somehow, none of it felt forced. Here’s the truth: this wasn’t about baseball, and it wasn’t really about religion either. It was about relatability.
At a moment when the news cycle feels relentlessly dark, when anger travels faster than empathy, the image of the Pope as “just another baseball fan from Chicago” permitted people to smile again. It reminded us that identity doesn’t have to divide. Sometimes it connects.
You can argue theology. You can argue politics. But being a White Sox fan? That’s universal suffering, and universal loyalty. That’s something we can all understand.
World Baseball Network didn’t chase this story because it was viral. It became viral because we treated it seriously, as a cultural moment worth documenting.
Baseball isn’t just played on fields. It lives in neighborhoods, parishes, family dinners, and now, apparently, the Vatican. Pope Leo’s fandom didn’t trivialize faith; it reinforced it. Faith is believing. Baseball teaches you how.
And as 2025 closes, one thing is clear: when history looks back at this year, one of the most enduring images won’t be a trophy or a headline. It will be the Pope in a White Sox cap, reminding the world that sometimes the most powerful stories aren’t shouted, they’re shared.
Chris R. Vaccaro is an Emmy Award-winning media executive, author, and professor from Long Island. He is a senior editorial advisor for World Baseball Network and, as a proud Roman Catholic, frequently writes about Pope Leo and baseball.