The Loveable, Miserable Cubbies

In the last entry, I talked about slumps and streaks. There is the kind of slump where your team has a four, five or seven game losing streak. And then there is the kind of streak that the Chicago Cubs have been going through since 1908. The Cubs, one of the oldest ball clubs in the country, have not won a World Series since 1908. They have had good teams the last couple years, but somehow, the prize always slips from their grasp in the final weeks of the season. I asked a friend of mine, Steve, The Hopeless, Hopeful Cubbie’s Fan what it was like to be a Cubs fan all his life. This is what he wrote back.

Hey Girlfriend, I don’t want to be ethereal or nothin’ but you have to really understand that professional baseball is the most existential metaphor to life that we have. Besides pretzels, hot dogs and fresh cold beer, there is nothing like the Chicago Cubs and a losing baseball club to bring you back to believe that something spectacular is going to happen only to have your hopes dashed and a total sense of life crashing down. This is followed by a powerful sense of futility only to be put aside by “well, there’s always next year.” Please know that great baseball towns like the Chicago and Boston have had many years of breaking boys' hearts. It seems to be the reflection of life’s tormenting and cruel nature. Life is short and when people have heavy grief and discomfort at the death bed of their father, family and good friends, there is always the break by saying, “Did you hear what happened at Wrigley or Fenway?”

I can only think that Camus, Kafka and Sartre could easily explain “man’s” absurd condition by understanding the Chicago Cubs haven’t won a World Series since before cars, leather belts and briefs. 1908. I only make sense of this by reciting the words of an unknown author who sums it up by stating, “ the security of misery is stronger the misery of insecurity.” It’s easier to stay with what you know and what’s always happened than try to change teams, TV stations, traditions and yet another roster.

My father brought me to a number of Cubs games starting 6 years after my birth at Chicago First Presbyterian Hospital at 7 pound 2 ounces. I remember being icy cold by the east winds off Lake Michigan with no hot chocolate, tea or coffee in sight. Though this was a harsh and strange beginning that would make most females shy away, boys grasp the existential nature of death standing over one’s shoulder.

Only a Cubs fan would grasp these concepts and move forward by inertia, the love of childhood memories and the belief that Harry Caray will meet us at our final resting place.

Please refer to Steve Goodman’s “The Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request.”