Tonight it all starts again. The tremors in your belly, the shaky hands, the knocking knees…but enough about trying to watch another episode of “According to Jim.”
Oh, I kill me.
Most of you know what we’re facing here. But some of you don’t. So let’s take a moment to consider why later on in the week, when the Cubs are in a pennant winning dogpile in either Miami or Wrigley why grown men will be jumping around in their living rooms like monkeys and trying like hell to keep those tears shoved back up in their eyes.
The Cubs are more than just a baseball team to be rooted for. Inspite of their losing (or maybe because of it) they burrow their way into parts of your brain and heart that you didn’t know existed. If they were a girlfriend who was this miserable, this unreliable or this much of a tease you’d have kicked her to the curb a long time ago. They’re like crack. You know you shouldn’t be doing it and every time you stop you think you won’t do it again, and next thing you know you’re in a motel with Ken Caminiti trying to get the damn lighter to work.
How much of that was out loud?
They’re the Cubs. They’re not just Chicago’s team. Thanks to a ridiculously powerful clear channel AM radio station and a “Superstation” TV network, we all grew up with easy access to every Cubs game. Things have changed in recent years, but with the advent of those miraculous little pizza box sized satellite dishes, they remain right there for you. The Cubs had a plan that Nazi Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbles would have loved. They got us while we were young and helpless.
I, like most little boys in the late 70s and 80s had a lot of free time during the summer. When I wasn’t playing baseball I was out in the driveway banging a tennis ball off the garage door pretending I was Shawon Dunston or Greg Maddux or even the great Rich Bordi. I remember distinctly being excited when I was nine years old that I was being moved to third base on my little league team. Even then I knew the Cubs didn’t have a third baseman and I figured that in about 12 years they’d still have a spot open for me. But those long, happy days of pretending I was a Cub were always interrupted for a couple hours when Vince Lloyd would announce–through the radio that dad had welded onto WGN-AM, “The Chicago Cubs are on the air.”
Then, he’d usually sum up the broadcast at the end with, “We hope you enjoyed the game, if not the outcome.” There was just something about that team, that field, that…everything. You were helpless. You were a Cubs fan and you were stuck with it. So you might as well be proud of it, because it wasn’t going away. It was like a bad rash that you cursed on a daily basis, until one day it cleared up and then you kind of missed it…knowing full well it’d be back in March to torture you again.
Harry Caray showed up in 1982 and I was 11, finally a man behind the mic with my sensibilities. Harry wanted to have a good time and damn it if that bad baseball wasn’t screwing with his fun.
The Daily Double, the Sutcliffe trade (which I was not happy with for quite a while, considering Mel Hall had become my favorite Cub—I got over it), and the “Sandberg Game” conspired to suck me in beyond any doubt in 1984. I won’t go in to the story about how my mom, my dad and I stood in front of Wrigley Field that day knowing that standing room tickets were available for that Cubs-Cardinals epic, and ended up driving through Indiana and Ohio on our regularly scheduled vacation. OK, maybe I will go into a little detail–as great as it would have been to have been at that game, there was something right about listening to it on the radio and living and dying with every at bat.
I still remember mom crying and dad looking like he wanted to punt the TV into the bean field that horrible Sunday in October 1984. I was 11, I knew it was bad, but I just figured the Cubs would win it next year.
Next year was five years later and Andre Dawson’s knees were falling off, nobody could get Will Clark out and Mitch Williams was imploding before our very eyes.
And then…nothing. The nineties were a wasteland of Cubs baseball. Bad teams, bad attitudes, just no fun. We suffered through the horribly milquetoast Jim Riggleman years, Don Baylor teased us and Bruce Kimm and Jim Essian made us want to gut ourselves with a butter knife.
2003 wasn’t supposed to be the year. It was supposed to be the year before the year, or maybe the year before the year before the year.
But there it is, like the electronic bone at the dog track. The 2003 pennant is so close we can practically touch the damn thing. And so we run after it, panting all the way, wondering if it will ever come into reach.
And so tonight it all starts again. How will they pull the rug out from under us? Who will add his name to the infamous Cubs lore as the reason we lost again? We’re not sure yet, but we’ll all be parked in front of our TVs, hanging on every pitch, swearing at the Fox TV crew of tHom Brennaman, Steve Lyons and Al Leiter (yes, Al Leiter), and watching the game through the cracks of our fingers as we try and hide our eyes.
But if we’ve learned anything since Dusty Baker took over, we know that things aren’t the same. Those old Cubs would have never pulled out the National League Central. They’d have never dropped a series cliniching game, hopped on a plane to Atlanta and grabbed it back.
There will be a lot of sentiment that the Cubs of 2003 win it for the Ron Santo, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams Cubs of the ’60s, the Sandberg, Dawson, Sutcliffe Cubs of the ’80s and every other old Cub who never got a chance.
Screw that.
Kerry Wood, Mark Prior, Sammy Sosa and the rest of the guys need to win it for themselves. Just make sure we get to watch the ride.
Cubs in six.
—
Jack McKeon must be a fun guy to play for. Do you think he even knows which team is his? I guarantee you he isn’t really sure if his centerfielder’s name is Juan Pierre, or Pierre Juan.
The Cubs are pulling for Ron Santo. No matter how hard, it won’t be as hard as he’s pulling for them.
Randall Simon likes to swing and likes to talk. At and about everything.
Mike Downey wonders how we’ll develop a hate for the Marlins. Give me an inning, I’ll think of something to get us through the rest of the way.
Rick Morrissey says it all comes back to Dusty. Normally, I think every coach of a winning team gets too much credit. But in this case, I honestly believe that Dusty’s the only guy who could have pulled this off, this year, with this team.
Phil Rogers is still a tool. Carlos Zambrano just said of tonight’s game. “I must go out there and kill the Marlins. Right after I kill Phil Rogers.” Go, get ’em, Carlos.
Cubs fans in the northeast, prepared to be very upset if you don’t have FX tomorrow night.
Mariotti puts down the doughnut to tell us all how much he likes watching Jim Hendry and Dusty Baker hug. That’s…nice?
Juan Cruz says that Carlos is ready, and I believe Juan.
Jack McKeon’s not sure which MacPhail Andy is. That’s OK, he thinks Carlton Fisk is his catcher.
Alex Gonzalez, meet Alex Gonzalez?
David Huh on the new, confident Bears. Oh, puh-leeze.
Fine, I’ll admit it, I’m rooting against the Red Sox. I want them out of our postseason. This is about the Cubs, not them and their stupid assed hackneyed curse. The good news, they’re playing the Yankees and they could play them 1,000 times and never win one against them that mattered.
This just in, Goober Manning is good.
Go away, Emmitt. Go away.
Jessica Simpson and her non-descript husband will be back for another season of Newlyweds. She’s so dumb it’s hilarious.
Roy is still critical. Karry Ling files this report from Las Vegas.
Hello again everybody.
Your old friend Karry Ling here from Las Vegas, where one half of the flamboyantly…uh…flamboyant white tiger training couple, Siegfriend and Roy is still in critical condition after being mauled by one of the tigers during a performance.
Roy Horn, the brunette, was mauled by Montecore, said to be one of the favorite white tigers in the act. I got this exclusive interview with Montecore.
Karry Ling: Montecore, why did you attack Roy on Friday night?
Montecore: Because, I’m a tiger.
Karry Ling: Good point. Are the other tigers upset that you mauled Roy, now they might be out of jobs, too?
Montecore: There’s a rumor going around that we’ll back at work by Christmas either with Roy, or if he doesn’t pull through, as part of a new act called Siegfried and Craig Biggio.
Karry Ling: Good stuff. By the way, how tasty was Roy?
Montecore: Not bad. Kind of like chicken.
Roy told paramedics as he was being taken to the ambulance, “Do not kill the cat.” Montecore asked the paramedics, “Can I have a doggy bag?”
It’s recall election day in Cal-ee-for-nee-yah. Go Arnold. Those nitwits in California deserve you.
Like the Rolling Stones, just when you think Pope John Paul is too old to tour, he does it again! He’s ending his set with a rousing rendition of the .38 Special classic “Back Alley Sally.”
Ah-nuld inspired Twisted Sister. Who knew?
A Pakistanian woman was murdered by her family because they didn’t like her fiance. How nice. And check out her photo. If she’s 22, Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are pushing 40.
The world’s greatest newspaper on the “hairpiece from Hell.”
You were 11 in both 1982 and 1984?
Hey, Dusty! Sorry to hear it’s been so long since you’ve seen your dog. I’m back in California. You want me to check up on him?
OK, now remind me. Which Alex Gonzalez is mine?
It’s me Jack! The one who sucks slightly less.
I have World Series Baseball 2K3 for the X-Box. All of the players have their picture in the game. Maybe. The first thing I noticed was that our A-Gon’s picture is that of the Florida Marlins’ Lex-Zales. Never checked to see if they just had them switched though. Even Sega can’t tell them apart.
Andy, that sums it up beautifully.
From a 1977 movie titled "The Dragon, the Odds":
Martial Arts Master: "This maneuver is called ‘Tiger Death Thrust’. You can kill a real-live tiger with it! And-that’s-no-joke-either!"
Bet Roy wishes he’d seen that one.
Man, it’s way past time to exorcise those wretched 1984 memories.
I was 21, in the USAF, stationed at Vandenberg (about 5-6 hours north of San Diego). I went to SD to see game 3 of the series. Alas, the schedule was kind of weird, and there was an off day between 3 and 4, and I was a poor airman and couldn’t afford to stay in SD for three nights, so I had to limit it to just the one game. After the first two games, though, I figured that one game would do it, and I’d get to be a witness to history.
I got to the stadium a few hours ahead of gametime, went to the ticket window, and got lucky – they still had a few seats left out in the right field pavillion, so I didn’t have to pay a scalper what little cash I had to get into the game. There were a bunch of other Cub fans circulating out around the stadium. I found a group to hang with for a while outside one of the gates while we waited for them to open up, a few of them had brooms, and we were taunting the passing Padres fans as they passed by with chants of "Sweep! Sweep! Sweep!".
Game 3 wasn’t good. The Cubs got killed, I think it was something like 7-1. The lasting memory I have now is that 1984 was the year that Ghostbusters came out, and when the Padres recorded the last out, they cranked up the theme to that movie on the PA, and I had to endure 50,000+ Padres fans screaming "CUB-BUSTERS" in my ear as I left the stadium. Some kind of karmic payback for the taunting that I’d participated in earlier, I guess.
My great consolation, as I made my way back to the car and made the long drive home was that there was no way they were gonna beat Sanderson on Saturday night, and even if they did, they’d still have to get past Sutcliffe on Sunday. It was in the bag.
I had Friday off, and I went to town to mess around for a while, went into this liquor store that I used to frequent (more like, single-handedly kept open), and bought a bottle of 12-year-old Wild Turkey to celebrate with when they wrapped it up. A little something to enhance my enjoyment of the World Series, you know.
Saturday and Sunday, well, I don’t really like to talk about those games anymore. Suffice it to say that there was much drunken swearing at the TV in the dorm rec room where I was living at the time. I kind of remember the room emptying out on Saturday night when Garvey hit his HR, and nobody, I mean nobody, wanted to watch Sunday’s game with me.
I’ve since made my home in California (Cal-eee-four-nee-ya after today, perhaps). But no distance or passage of time will ever dim my love of Cubs baseball. I’ve suffered too many crappy seasons and a few gut-wrenching close calls, and there’s no way I’m gonna give up now.
I had hope in 1989, but the pain of five years earlier was just too fresh, and I never let myself believe that it was gonna happen then. I knew that the 1998 Cubs, as much fun as that season had been, had no chance in the playoffs. Their pitching was just shot by then, and I consoled myself by thinking that it was a lot of fun just to get there.
I’ve had a real hard time getting myself to believe in this team this year. I drove back down to SD to see the series in August and to say goodbye to that haunted place, and after they swept that series and got close, I started to think, well, maybe they’ll hang in and contend until the end. Then they had that incredible series with the Cards, and I started thinking, well, maybe they’ll win this division, and they’ll be tough if they get in the playoffs. Then they got there, and proceeded to put us on the roller coaster again.
But I’ve refused to say it out loud until I saw a sign that it was gonna happen. I got that sign on Sunday night, after they blew the call on the Lofton catch, and the Cubs proceeded to get out of the inning with the DP on the next batter. C’mon, show of hands – how many of you thought that blown call was the beginning of the end for at least a few seconds? I sure had that all-too-familiar queasy feeling. But when they got the twin killing, the heavenly choir started singing – this is it, this is the year. These are *not* the same old Cubs. These Cubs are going to win the National League pennant.
I still have that bottle of 12-year-old Wild Turkey, unopened. I’ve been saving it all these years to celebrate a Cubs pennant and to drink during the World Series. I’ve had another bottle of it since, but I haven’t been able to find any more of it for years. Over time, it’s become my most treasured, least replaceable material possession. And I can’t wait to get rid of it.
That’s gonna be some damned fine bourbon…
Oh, and Andy, I’m not even gonna bother to try to keep the tears back. I’m gonna let it all hang out. In a manly way, of course.
Go Cubs!
"You were 11 in 1982 and 1984?"
Still am.
OK, I was nine in 1982.
But, were you in the fourth grade that entire time?
Dennis, it is just unbelievable that you have that Wild Turkey. Too bad you’re in California: I have a genuine bottle of 1984 Cubs Champagne which will get opened if and when they win the damn thing ("Celebrate the 1984 Cubs"). I wouldn’t dream of drinking it – it was terrible champagne in 1984, I’m sure, and that stuff only lasts a couple of years – but there will be some wet t-shirts in Rockford if and when.
When was the last time a right-handed power pitcher adjusted his nuts between the first and second pitches of a post-season game……That’s right 1908.
What’s the answer to all my trivia questions tonight?
1908!
I’m looking Dead Red on this pitch Thommmm.
What’s the over/under on how many times I use the word "storied" in the first Yankess-Red Sox game?
Did anyone catch my thideline reporting on the Jonny Damon acthident latht night? Pulit-ther prithe, here I come!
I flipped off KD when he was 13. Seriously.
Joe, what’s the over/under on you saying "Corky" when Sosa hits a homer in the NLCS???
I bet it’s zero… Jerk.
(1) It’s officially now, "Cal-ee-forn-yah."
(2) Regarding Siegfried and Roy: Actually, the new act is going to be called, "Siegfried and Kordell."
In general, I feel if you can’t say it clearly you don’t understand it yourself. by free online poker