The morning after everything changed.
Barrels of ink have already
been spilled. More are tipping as I
type. TV sports yappers have waxed
poetic. The streets have filled with fans,
yahoos, and wannabes alike. Social
media has gone into prolonged orgasm. Here and there in lonely nursing home rooms feeble voices have cheered, fragile hands clapped,
and tears brimmed the eyes. The Chicago
Cubs have won the World Series.
My
beloved Cubs, I always say, as if they belonged
to me. This boy from Cheyenne who grew up a Cardinals fan has been hooked on the Boys in blue pinstripes since I wandered into Kap’s, a fanatic Cubs bar on
Armitage near the old Town Burlesque in 1969. My first trips to Wrigley Field were that year, the first adrenaline rush of a pennant
race, the first embrace of heroes I
would come to know as well as family, the first bitter heartbreak of disappointment.
I would return to the well year after year in good times and in miserable seasons—the same ones our
beloved Chicago Shorty—Steve Goodman—knew
so well and immortalized in both wistful
and hopefully defiant song. I wore
out transistor radios listening
furtively to Cubs games at various jobs.
Jack Brickhouse, Lou Boudreau,
Milo Hamilton, and Harry Caray.
Yet my claims were shallow. A veritable Johnny come lately. The city,
suburbs, and beyond are filled
with generations of fans—a faith and hope passed on by miraculous
baptism linking great grandfathers to
babes in Cubs onesies. The stories are legion. This week the team provided chalk for those deeply connected fans
to inscribe on the bricks the names of loved ones who waited for this
moment. It would be a cliché if it weren’t so damn real.
As much as I have loved them, I surprised myself last night during the emotional roller coaster of what may go down in history as the greatest game 7 ever played. In the span of three and a half hours I soared to elation, was kicked in the gut by despair, and miraculously restored to faith. I was not prepared for the surge
of emotions at that final tenth
inning out. The celebrations in the
field and in the streets were matched in a shabby
Crystal Lake living room by an old
man in a recliner and ratty old cap,
his fair weather fan wife, and a perplexed dog.
I laughed. I wept.
I could hardly sleep at all.
This morning a fog lay on the ground as I took
the bus to work. By the time we got
to Woodstock it had lifted and the Sun was rising in a perfect
blue sky just peeking through the
crowns of golden maple trees. The air electric, crisp, expectant. Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
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