CHICAGO -- Strength is a word that quickly comes to mind when speaking about Bobby Jenks, the iconic White Sox closer who passed away Friday after a battle with Stage 4 adenocarcinoma, a form of stomach cancer.
That’s strength, as in his White Sox teammates, who were no physical slouches, marveling at the raw power possessed by the 6-foot-4, 275-pound mound force. Strength, as in Jenks working diligently to overcome pitfalls throughout his 44 years of existence, because none of us live perfect lives.
And strength, as in Jenks, speaking on Feb. 15 from his hospital bed in Sintra, Portugal, not giving up or giving in to cancer regardless of the bleak outlook.
“They are not going to put any numbers on it. I wouldn’t even want numbers,” Jenks told me five months ago. “You hear stories all the time, ‘Oh, they gave me six months, 25 years ago.’ I don’t buy into that. Whatever happens is going to happen regardless.”
“He was such an optimistic person,” said Tom Bafia, the White Sox assistant home clubhouse manager who knew Jenks for 20 years. “He almost made me start believing that he’s going to get out of this and he’s fine and he’s going to get better.”
Bafia was a batboy and clubhouse worker when Jenks, the hard-throwing rookie with the Babe Ruthian aura, arrived in Chicago for his Major League debut on July 6, 2005, which was exactly two decades ago Sunday. He referred to Jenks as “literally like my big brother,” hanging out at Bears games or at Jenks’ house, playing golf and staying in contact after Jenks tearfully shared the news of his cancer diagnosis by phone.
Their interactions became more of the text variety as the illness took from Jenks. It was recently when Jenks mentioned to Bafia how he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Rate Field for this coming weekend’s 20-year-reunion of the 2005 World Series championship, despite a strong desire to do so, but wanted Bafia to visit Portugal during the offseason.
Jenks was straightforward, unfailingly honest and often reserved the toughest critiques for himself. We spoke on a couple of occasions over the years about his battle with alcohol and drugs, which makes his death all the sadder, as he removed those vices and had been living healthy. I also have memories of a smiling Jenks tossing hot dogs to kids at the annual White Sox Charities ballpark holiday party, with the kids loving every throw, or just having fun in the clubhouse.
That first pitch from Jenks 20 years ago registered 102 mph on the stadium scoreboard at what is now known as Rate Field, drawing audible gasps from the crowd. His last pitch in 2005 induced a World Series sweep-ending groundout from Houston’s Orlando Palmeiro, setting off celebrations and tears of joy across White Sox nation.
His playing career ended with 173 saves over six seasons for the White Sox, ranking him second all-time in franchise history behind Bobby Thigpen’s total of 201. He retired 41 consecutive batters during the 2007 season, laughing and telling me he preferred not to talk about what would become an historic run when I approached him midway through that streak.
A move into managing became Jenks’ final baseball step, leading the Grand Junction Rockies to a Pioneer League championship in ’22 and taking over the Frontier League’s Windy City Thunderbolts for the ’24 season. The Thunderbolts play in Crestwood, Ill., a south suburb located about 27 miles outside of Chicago, so it was a return to baseball roots for Jenks, who was on a leave of absence for the ’25 season.
Toby Hall, a former White Sox catcher and Jenks’ good friend, took over as manager.
“You never think of a guy who is an elite closer as, ‘That guy is going to be a manager someday.’ You just never do,” Thunderbolts assistant general manager Bill Waliewski said. “It’s always the catcher, maybe the middle infielder, but he was the exception to whatever rule there is that says a closer is not going to be a good manager. He was a terrific manager.”
Various players from Jenks’ teams agreed across social media following news of his passing. Jenks had fun but was dedicated to developing these players.
“He’s the world’s biggest eighth grader, in the best way,” Waliewski said. “He was so full of fun, and yet when it’s time to get to work, we are getting to work.
“It hits you like a ton of bricks, at such a young age. He adored his family: His wife and his family. He talked about them often. And it’s not supposed to end this way. It’s just not.”
Jenks is survived by his wife, Eleni Tzitzivacos, their two children Zeno and Kate, and his four children from a prior marriage, Cuma, Nolan, Rylan and Jackson. During our conversation in February, Jenks took a little extra pride in the following quote when discussing his upcoming cancer fight.
“Momma didn’t raise no Cubs fan here,” Jenks said with a laugh.
I’m not sure if Jenks disliked the Cubs. If you play on either geographic side of Chicago, it’s in the unofficial handbook how you don’t like the opposition. It was more about Jenks relishing his place on the South Side. He loved the people. He really loved the fans. They truly shared the feeling.
For many, Jenks was “some kind of superhero who comes out of the bullpen and throws 100 and gets outs,” as Waliewski pointed out.
“I feel so sad we only had him for a year with us,” said Waliewski, as he was overcome by emotion. “He has a family and people that love him. Made a huge impact.”
“Everybody loved him,” Bafia said. “He was always just a crazy, wild person, but he had the biggest heart and would always help people.”