Being A Cubs Fan

"I've got season tickets to watch the Angels now.
And that's just what I'm gonna do.
But you, the living, you're stuck with the Cubs.
So, it's me, who feels sorry for you."

- A Dying Cubs Fan's Last Request: Steve Goodman

All Cubs fans are extremely familiar with the song "Go Cubs Go," written by noted Cubs fan and 70's folk musician Steve Goodman. Over the last couple of years it has become a veritable Wrigley Field staple and is now played following all home field victories. Far fewer are familiar with Goodman's other "tribute" to the Chicago National League Ballclub, which, in my opinion, is much more appropro. In fact, after the Cubs were swept out of the playoffs in both '07 and '08, ending the Cubs so-called "dream seasons," I could not help but immediately think of Goodman's words.

(By the way, the dying Cubs fan quoted above is not referring to Vladimir Guerrero, Chone Figgins and Doug DeCinces and certainly not to Jaclyn Smith, Kate Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. Just want to make sure we are all on the same page here).

What can I say? The end to the Cubs season is always met with disappointment and sadness (especially the last two years when there was so much promise). You know, there are times when I am incredibly jealous of people who, at the end of the day, simply do not care and are able to go about their business without giving what happened to the Cubs on a given day a second thought. People who honestly believe that it is just a game. I, however, cannot. And I keep thinking about the words of my good friend, Tom, who noted on his Facebook page "Tom does not know why he cares so much about something that disappoints again and again and again." Well said.

The bottom line is I don't know either. I don't know why it matters so much. I just know that it does.

I have tried to figure it out. Heck, people a hell of a lot smarter than me have tried to figure it out. The problem is you just can't. You cannot explain why someone like me feels such joy when their favorite team wins and such agony when they lose. You cannot explain why my mood often IS dependent on whether Ryan Theriot perfectly executed a hit-and-run or whether Ted Lilly couldn't locate his curveball. I don't think anyone knows why some of us are wired the way we are.

Oh sure, I've still got my other favorite teams: the Bears, Indiana Hoosiers basketball, Blackhawks and Bulls, but the end of the Cubs season always makes me feel especially empty. The Cubs, after all, are different. It sounds corny, but the Cubs truly do hold a special place in my heart. After all, thanks to my parents (my mother primarily) I think I knew who Ernie Banks was before I knew Bugs Bunny. I grew up thinking that Oscar Meyer hot dogs and Frosty Malts were what they fed you in heaven. I thought Bill Buckner was the best hitter in baseball, Rick Reuschel was a legit Cy Young candidate, and the combination of Steve Ontiveros, Larry Bittner and Manny Trillo could be the magic formula.

I can still remember going to Osco Drugstore with my father every April for that year's first pack of Topps Baseball Cards and I remember hoping and hoping that I would get an Ivan DeJesus. I remember the mustache and I can still picture myself sitting on my bedroom floor, reading every stat on the back of the card...his .278 batting average, his 24 doubles, and his 74 walks (no doubt nursing my bleeding gums... I mean, did they have to make the gum THAT hard?!?). I remember Tim Blackwell, Lenny Randle and Mike Krukow. I remember how I felt when my mother told be that we would NOT be going to Wrigley on a June afternoon thanks to an untimely spate of thunderstorms and I certainly remember that not even Bruce Jenner and the Village People could not make it all better despite their best efforts in the truly horrific movie "Can't Stop the Music" (it turns out that going to Randhurst to see the late 70's "classic" was my mother's inspired backup plan...).

I cried when the ball went through Durham's legs, cursed Will the Thrill and, for one day, believed that Tuffy Rhodes was the next Hammerin' Hank. I heard Harry successfully spell Doug Dascenzo's name backwards and chuckled at the thought of what he would do if Dan Quisenberry ever became the Cubs' closer. I wondered why Marla Collins and her too-sizes-too-small ballgirl shorts disappeared so suddenly (I guess they did not trust an innocent 14-year old boy with the truth...).

I was actually there when Brant Brown dropped the ball and I was in the building when Steve Trachsel pitched seven no-hit innings versus the Giants in game #163. I threw an O'Henry bar and, fortunately, avoided time in Milwaukee County Stadium jail. I questioned Moises' unorthodox way of hardening his hands, considered buying a Mark Prior model #22 MRI machine, and sat in stunned silence as D. Lee put the Marlins ahead in the top of the 8th.

The bottom line is that I live with this stuff every day and I have for the past 35 years (I trust that I was not consciously listening to Jack Brickhouse when I was age two, although with my mother, I cannot say for sure).

We all know that it has been more than 100 years, but sometimes you have to step back and really think about it to realize how amazing (painful?) it is. 1908. One hundred years. You could not take off for a weekend getaway in the Florida Keys in 1908. Heck, at that time, the Wright Brothers were only first considering how one can -- through the magic of service and other charges -- take a $10 airline ticket and turn it into a bill that totals about $350. In 1908, people were not driving Hummers decked out with multiple video game systems ala LeBron James. 1908, in fact, was actually the first year of production for the The Model T. Arizona Diamonbacks and Alburquerque Isotopes? Heck, Arizona and New Mexico were not even states for gosh sakes.

Look, I am not going to insult anyone by saying "Wait Til' Next Year" and I will not even hazard a guess regarding whether the Cubs will actually break through in my lifetime (or even my kids' lifetimes). Nobody ever really knows what a season will hold. After all, you just never know whether Dempster may come down with a case of Prior-itis or Big Z will throw out his back trying to break Mike Fontenot over his knee. Heck, I suppose it is always possible that Jacque Jones could come back and kill us all. One just never knows.

But I do know that after the tears dry a couple of weeks after the season, I put my Cubs cap back on and try and figure out the riddle that is middle relief. And you can bet that I will always be there the following next April, watching every pitch and hoping against hope that 101 years is long enough. And although I appreciate the Dying Cubs Fan's sympathy and, at the end of the season, may be both sad and disappointed, I remain forever proud to be a Cubs fan. It is, after all, who I am. And who I will always be.