The Rookies

My name is Speaking Sputnik and I am a Cubs fan. Why, you might ask, root for a team so famously bad, a cursed team, one that hasn’t won a championship for 101 years, a team known more for its ballpark’s atmosphere (Ozzie Guillen continues to assert that it is, indeed, simply a bar; I think that he just means the bleachers), than for anything it has done on the field recently? I was at Game Six of the 2003 NLCS, the Bartman game. I saw my team six outs from the World Series, and I saw them collapse as they are so want to do. I also was privileged enough to attend Game Two of the 2005 World Series, and, frankly, I enjoyed the Bartman game more. The Sox victory, while thrilling, could not compare to the feeling of my team, my cursed, sure-to-lose, choketastic team, being so close to the World Series that we could hardly fail to grasp it. I really thought I was witnessing history. Of course, reality intervened and the Flubs are the Flubs. I don’t blame Bartman, but, well, what if Alou had caught that foul pop?

That, essentially, is why I continue to root for a team that has been swept in the playoffs for two years running, and missed them this year, watched the second highest payroll in baseball hit like, well, the Pirates, and a bullpen whose shakiness puts Michael J. Fox to shame. I watch Jim Hendry’s “superstars” Alfonso Soriano and Milton “Suspended Judgement” Bradley underachieve and not give one sixteenth of a shit about even pretending to put in effort because, as much as I hate the players individually, I love the Chicago Cubs. I love the ivy, the scoreboard, hand-scoring games, the Stretch, a ballpark whose name isn’t a sponsor’s, Polish Sausage, Italian Beef, Old Style, Greg Maddux, Harry Caray and singing “Go Cubs Go.” In my mind, there is nothing more magical than the way the field sparkles during a night game under the lights, or the sight of the white flag flying above the scoreboard early in an August evening.

How did I end up in this place? Like most Cub fans, it’s in my blood. I am a Northsider born and bred, I was taught to hate everything that is related to the South Side (except for Polish Sausage); so was my dad, and so was his dad. We only ever watched one baseball team, and that was, of course, the Cubs. It’s soul-crushing, but hey, it’s family tradition. My grandfather always liked the cheap seats on the upper deck, so he could see how the players shifted. I prefer seats closer in, but I can’t afford them. So it goes.

My most memorable game at Wrigley Field? Tom Glavine’s 300th win. That pretty much sums up the Cub fan’s experience; the home team’s mediocrity is so consistent that losing is so de rigeur that even the crushing losses (2003 NLCS Game Six) are overshadowed by the rather dominating loss the Mets dealt us. I still believe that the Cubs can win in my lifetime, especially with the team being purchased away from the Second Coming of Bill Wirtz, Sam Zell, but, in my heart, I know that I likely will not see a Cubs championship for some time, if ever. I don’t spend much time in Chicago anymore; I love Soldier Field in December (no matter who’s playing quarterback) and the New Madhouse on Madison in April (Hawks resurgent!), but my heart, bleeding Cubbie Blue, sits at 1060 W. Addison Street.