Time is supposed to soften history.
Frank Thomas hit 448 of his 521 career home runs during his 16 seasons with the Chicago White Sox. Quinn Harris / Getty Images
For Frank Thomas and the Chicago White Sox, it hasn’t.
A single social media post was enough to bring years of unresolved tension back into public view.
The White Sox shared a Black History Month graphic highlighting “momentous firsts” in franchise history.
It was meant as celebration.
It landed as provocation.
Thomas, the franchise’s career home run leader and most recognizable modern icon, appeared only briefly in the graphic.
His inclusion came as an add-on, grouped with Dick Allen’s MVP legacy.
Thomas noticed immediately.
His response was direct, public, and pointed.
“I guess the black player who made you rich over there and holds all your records is forgettable,” Thomas wrote.
The post didn’t accuse.
It implied something worse.
Erasure.
The reaction reopened a relationship that never truly healed after Thomas’ exit from Chicago in the mid-2000s.
Thomas spent 16 of his 19 major league seasons with the White Sox.
He wasn’t just productive. He was foundational.
Yet his departure was anything but graceful.
In 2006, Thomas sued two team-contracted doctors, alleging a misdiagnosis of a fractured foot that worsened his injury.
The lawsuit lingered for years before settling quietly in 2011.
By then, the damage was done.
Thomas played only 34 games during the White Sox’s 2005 championship season and didn’t appear in the World Series.
Afterward, the team bought out his contract.
He left. The ring stayed.
Tension with then-general manager Ken Williams only deepened the divide.
Their most public conflict stemmed from a “diminished skills” clause the team invoked in 2002, reducing Thomas’ pay.
Words followed.
Ugly ones.
Williams, later quoted in 2006, openly disparaged Thomas after he joined Oakland.
That feud never fully cooled.
Ironically, Williams appeared three times in the Black History Month graphic that upset Thomas.
Context matters.
Williams was the White Sox’s first Black general manager and one of the first in MLB history.
But to Thomas, the imbalance felt personal.
Since retiring, Thomas’ relationship with the franchise has existed in fragments.
The White Sox named him a team ambassador in 2010.
They retired his number that same year.
In 2016, they made him a special consultant for business operations.
These gestures suggested reconciliation.
But presence tells its own story.
Thomas attended the 10-year World Series celebration in 2015.
He did not attend the 20-year reunion in 2025.
Absence speaks.
The Black History Month graphic didn’t create new anger.
It exposed old resentment still sitting beneath the surface.
Thomas’ response wasn’t about a missing caption.
It was about recognition.
About whose legacy gets framed centrally — and whose gets footnoted.
For the White Sox, the moment is uncomfortable.
They attempted to honor history and instead highlighted unresolved fractures within it.
For Thomas, the comment wasn’t nostalgia.
It was a receipt.
A reminder that despite statues, numbers, and titles, relationships don’t always follow ceremony.
Black History Month is about acknowledgment.
About telling stories fully, not partially.
This episode shows how easily celebration turns complicated when history isn’t settled.
The White Sox may not respond publicly.
They may let the moment pass.
But the reaction already did its work.
It reminded everyone that Frank Thomas isn’t just part of the franchise’s past.
He’s part of its unfinished business.
And sometimes, history doesn’t ask to be honored.
It asks to be confronted.
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