Remembering Bobby Jenks and His Texas-Sized Moment
By LONNIE KING | © 2025 Big Daddy’s Texas Sports
Bobby Jenks passed away on July 4, 2025, after a battle with stage 4 stomach cancer. He was only 44.
I know this space is generally reserved for goings-on in Texas sports…and Jenks has no discernable ties to Texas sports…with one notable exception.
For many in Chicago, he’ll forever be remembered as the flame-throwing rookie who helped break an 88-year World Series drought for the White Sox. But here in Texas—specifically in Houston—his legacy intersects with one of the most painful and iconic moments in Astros history.
And yet, ask most Astros fans today what they remember from that 2005 World Series, and the name that comes to mind isn’t Jenks. It’s Geoff Blum.
2005 marked the first World Series appearance in Houston Astros history, igniting immense excitement. With stars like Craig Biggio, Lance Berkman, and Roy Oswalt, Minute Maid Park buzzed with energy—and hope.
Then came the wake-up call.
Former Astro Geoff Blum tied Game 3 with a 14th-inning home run, and rookie closer Bobby Jenks sealed the deal in Game 4—with his final pitch coming on Texas soil, ending Houston’s dream with silence.
Today, ‘Blummer’ is a familiar and much-loved voice in the Astros TV broadcast booth. Yet he has never shied away from reflecting on his time with the White Sox—especially the pivotal 2005 Game 3 blast that shifted momentum toward Chicago.
Blum’s swing still echoes in Astros lore—his own former and future team swept in part by the very player who had once lockered next to them.
But if Blum pushed the door closer to closing, Jenks slammed it shut.
From waiver-wire to postseason closer in months, Jenks notched saves in Games 1 and 4, recording the final outs in Game 4 at Minute Maid Park.
He emerged as the Series savior—a rookie hero whose career-defining moment unfolded in Houston, Texas.
Jenks courageously battled cancer well beyond baseball, and he did so amid other struggles that would be emotionally unbearable for the healthiest among us.
Earlier this year, he lost his home in southern California wildfires, prompting him to move to Portugal with his wife and children, only to be diagnosed with stage 4 adenocarcinoma.
Without medical insurance, he incurred significant medical costs. He auctioned signed memorabilia, endured chemotherapy and radiation, and made personal sacrifices—all while remaining hopeful.
As he recently shared with the New York Times, he wanted a simple tent to give his family a future memory beyond hospitals: “I’m going to be here fighting it.”
I love baseball rivalries and the passion they bring out in fans. We inexplicably learn to despise opponents simply because of the uniforms they wear. We learn to love ‘our guys’ simply because they wear our colors.
It’s entertaining, to say the least. Irrational, to be sure, but entertaining.
And yet, in the heat of a rivalry it’s easy to forget that both sides are made up of men, or women, who have personal lives, families, friends and people they leave indelible marks on, just by being around them. They’re complex human beings.
Jenks had that apparent impact on the people who knew him best.
Jerry Reinsdorf, White Sox chairman, expressed it like this:
“None of us will ever forget that ninth inning of Game 4 in Houston … He . . . will forever hold a special place in all our hearts.”
A.J. Pierzynski, his White Sox catcher, called him, “a huge guy with a huge heart,” adding, “Bobby you will be missed…” after hearing the news.
And Paul Konerko added, “Everyone remembers him as a big guy and tough competitor … but off the field he was a big teddy bear.”
And Blum? He posted a simple video tribute to his former teammate on social media with the caption, “Rest easy, Bobby.“
In Houston, fans might recall Blum’s World Series homer. But, he has been long since forgiven. Bobby Jenks, and his confounding fastball, not so much.
But for a brief and unforgettable October, both men crafted a narrative in a Texas ballpark, under a Texas sky. And they greatly influenced Texas’ sports history.
Astros fans may not have cheered it—but they were there to witness greatness.
Sadly, cancer has no respect for greatness and it will take out a “living legend” as quickly as an average Joe.
I hated Bobby Jenks in 2005. I don’t anymore. No one should.
Let’s save the hatred for the real enemies we all face, sooner or later. And, as emotionally difficult as it may be for some of us to do it, let’s celebrate his memory.
Here’s a man whose finest hour came in Texas, whose battle in life touched everyone who had known him—and whose passing marks the end of a story defined by intensity, resilience, and heart.
Rest easy, Bobby. Houston remembers.
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