Let’s start off with the profound insight of George Will: Cubs fans are 98.7% scar tissue. Prior to The Miracle of the 2016 season, it could reasonably be said that the Cubs were in the 101st year of their rebuilding effort. During the Cold War, Will aptly described the Cubs as the moral equivalent of Soviet agriculture.
You get the idea.
2016 aside, we Cubs fans know how to suffer. From birth, we are haunted by the immortal words of Stan Coveleski, a right-handed pitcher who played for four American League teams between 1912 and 1928, primarily the Cleveland Indians (which is likely where he acquired his mournful turn of mind), “Lord, baseball is a worrying thing.”
And yet, here I was yesterday, minding my own business, blissfully ignorant (or at least largely ignorant – I do check scores periodically) of how the Cubbies had started the season, when I came across a video summary of their recent game against the Seattle Mariners at Wrigley.
It was a night game, and Seattle had jumped out to a large lead (6-0) in the first few innings. As the highlights rolled through chronologically, I was mesmerized by the intensity of this early-season, fairly meaningless game. The stands were absolutely packed, but it was more than that. Even in the third inning, during “big” pitches (how can there be “big” pitches in the 3rd inning of an early April game?) the entire stadium would rise to their feet and howl at the top of their lungs. Flashbulbs were flashing, hugs and high-fives were being exchanged in the stands – it was as if it was Game 7 of the Series, not a throwaway game in April against a mediocre opponent.
I literally got goosebumps. And that’s the dismal humor of it.
Here I was, a lifelong Cubs fan who knows better, getting drawn back into the magic of Wrigley Field and the irrational exuberance of its strange denizens. As irritating as it is to non-Cubs fans, the truth is that there is nothing quite like it, or them.
Enter the cruelty of baseball, that “worrying thing.”
In many ways, baseball reflects the rhythms and seasons of life. As with life, baseball is largely comprised of long periods of mediocrity and even failure, punctuated with the occasional success that makes the drudgery worthwhile. (Consider: the very best hitters in Major League baseball – the best hitters in the world – fail 70% of the time. It truly is a sport for neurotics.)
And consider the trajectory of a given season. As in life, the baseball season begins – in Spring, of course – full of hope and flush with the optimism of new beginnings. As Spring moves to Summer, that rush of exuberance begins to mellow – not disappearing, of course, but gradually maturing, replacing youthful giddiness with more temperate emotions. Come September, the first whiffs of Fall, itself the harbinger of death, begin to creep into the consciousness, forcing all but a lucky few to face the reality of failure, emptiness, of what the Moody Blues called “another day’s useless energy spent.” No other sport tracks the life of humanity closer than baseball.
Knowing all this, and hardened by a lifetime of losing, I still let my emotions get away from me, and my imagination to soar, just by watching that damned video of the Cubs in their environment. It just makes no sense!
And this is the Cubs fan’s dilemma. You’ll always come back, knowing full well that your heart will be broken.
Chicago’s sainted Nelson Algren, speaking of Chicago in general, probably summed it up best: “Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies. But never a lovely so real.”
