Casey at the Bat

For those of us living in the Midwest, fall is always a special time. The leaves change into beautiful autumn colors, the air takes on a certain crispness, and the sights and smells of bonfires invade the senses. From a sporting perspective, fall always brings the eager anticipation of all things football, and the conclusion of the long baseball season. I used to love everything about fall.

Then the Cubs stabbed me in the heart. Again.

I know many of you reading this are fans of other baseball teams; most likely the Cardinals. Having grown up in southern Illinois, I absorbed my fair share of abuse for being a stupid Cubs fan. But, I was a die-hard. Through thick and thin. I grew up on Harry Caray, Ryno, the Hawk, and the Penguin. It was in my blood. Sure, even as a young Cubs fan, one of my early memories is of a 9-year-old me crying myself to sleep in 1984 when the Cubs collapsed against the Padres. And yeah, later in life, it turned out that the smiling guy everyone loved, Sammy Sosa, turned out be a self-centered, narcissistic, cheater. Oh, I grew more cynical the longer I stood by my team, but I never let them go.

Until the fall of 2008.

That was the year that was supposed to reverse the curse of the goat. It had been exactly 100 years since the Cubs had won a World Series, but they were flying high. All of my buddies and I kept waiting for them to self-destruct throughout the season, but they never did. They were steady as a rock. After so many years of hurt, and doubt, I did the unthinkable. I allowed myself the slight possibility that THIS might actually be the year. No more “wait until next year.” It was going to happen in my lifetime, and it was going to be the biggest sporting celebration the nation had ever seen. It was going to feel like sweet, sweet redemption.

Then they promptly got swept out of the playoffs in the first round without winning a single game.

I forced myself to sit there and watch the final outs of Game 3 against Los Angeles because I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to let all those years of disappointment sink in so that I would never, ever again let myself get taken in by the Cubs. I sat there fuming in silence for almost 10 minutes after the game was over. I got up, grabbed a big trash bag, and shoved every bit of Cubs paraphernalia I had into the bag, save one (a gift from my Mom which had its own sentimental value). I threw the bag into the basement, and it’s sitting there yet today, although I have no idea where. That night, I slept as soundly as I had in a long time. (Yes, I’m aware this all makes me a crazy person, but there you have it.)

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of my kids crying.

When I came downstairs, they demanded to know where all their Cubs stuff was. You see, like a sucker, I had drawn my poor kids into the tragedy that is Cubs fandom, and had bought them hats, shirts, and other cool stuff. We had watched a few different games together, and had even made a trip to Wrigley. We talked about reversing the curse. The Cubs had become our family’s team. And I had taken all those great memories and put them in a trash bag. It clearly wasn’t my best moment as a father. After all, I hadn’t even considered that they would be upset for those reasons. I should have, of course, because they’re still a little too young to let sports dominate their emotional landscape the way I did. So, I apologized for being a dunce and gave them back their stuff. But not without some sage advice.

“I did this for you. I was trying to be a good Dad and save you from a lifetime of heartache. If you want to have a happy life as a baseball fan when you get older, then be a Cardinals fan like your uncle and some of your friends.”

It’s almost two years later, and I haven’t watched an entire Cubs game since that fateful day. I’m guessing I haven’t even watched more than a grand total of 8 innings of their games. I can’t tell you what their record is, I can’t tell you who on the team is playing or hurt, and most amazingly, I never even know when they’re playing the Cardinals until someone else mentions it. Meanwhile, my kids have pretty much stopped caring about specific baseball teams. Sadly, so have I. In fact, I have lost almost all love for the sport itself, even as my son’s love for it grows daily. I like watching him play, but this October, I doubt I’ll watch even one full game of the World Series.

Fall will never be quite the same, thanks to the lovable losers.

EDIT: I forgot to count the couple of games at Wrigley that I’ve gone to in the last couple of years, which was done in stereotypical Cub fan fashion: as a social event. I enjoyed those games more than any before because I didn’t care one bit if they won or lost. It’s also pretty debatable whether or not I was “watching” as opposed to hanging out with my friends and occasionally looking at the field.

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