Showing posts with label 2016. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2016. Show all posts

Monday, November 3, 2025

When The Universe Was Reset—the Cubs Won the World Series

 

NoteJust nine years ago yesterday as the U.S. was about to slide into disaster, the thrilling victory of the Chicago Cubs in the World Series ending a 108 year drought lifted my heart and generations of the most faithful fans in baseball.  This year, stacked by veteran and newbies with home run punch, speed on the base paths, talented starters, a stellar bull pen, and flat out the best defense in baseball made it past NL Wild Card to a hotly contested Division championship against their archrivals from Milwaukee.  It was a tantalizing reminder…

The morning after everything changed.  Barrels of ink have already been spilled.  More are tipping as I type.  TV sports yappers waxed poetic.  The streets filled with fans, yahoos, and wannabes alike.  Social media went into prolonged orgasm.  Here and there in lonely nursing home rooms feeble voices cheered, fragile hands clapped, and tears brimmed the eyes.  The Chicago Cubs won the World Series.

  

The Boys celebrating on the field after the final 10th inning out.

My beloved Cubs, I always say, as it 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 returned to the well year after year in good times and in miserable seasonsthe 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.

 

Steve Goodman--Chicago Shorty--wrote the anthem Go Cubs Go and The Dying Cub Fan's Last Request passed himself right before the Cubs clenched a Division Championship won a Division championship in 1989.
 

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 babies in Cubs onesies.  The stories are legions.  This week the team supplied chalk for those deeply connected fans to inscribe on the bricks of Wrigley Field 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 loved them, I surprised myself on that last night during the emotional rollercoaster 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 the Old Man in a recliner and ratty old cap, his fair weather fan wife, and a perplexed dog.

  

Cubs fans watching the final game on the Wrigley Field Jumbotron expressed the joy of generations. 

I laughed.  I wept.  I could hardly sleep at all. 

The next 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.

 

 

Wednesday, November 3, 2021

Five Years Ago—The Universe was Reset the Cubs Won the World Series

NoteJust five years ago yesterday as the U.S. was about to slide into disaster, the thrilling victory of the Chicago Cubs in the World Series ending a 108 year drought lifted my heart and generations of the most faithful fans in baseball.  Since then, were have endured tough times and this past season a promising team stacked by beloved players, most of them veterans of the 2016 triumph sputtered out mid-season and were dealt away in a fire sale.  Heart breaking.  But there were glimmers of hope among the replacements and Cubs fans are every ready to hope for next year.  This is the blog entry I posted the morning of the day after the game.

The morning after everything changedBarrels of ink have already been spilled.  More are tipping as I typeTV 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.

The Boys celebrating on the field after the final 10th inning out.

My beloved Cubs, I always say, as it 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.

Steve Goodman--Chicago Shorty--wrote the anthem Go Cubs Go and The Dying Cub Fan's Last Request passed himself right before the Cubs clenched a Division Championship won a Division championship in 1989.

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 supplied chalk for those deeply connected fans to inscribe on the bricks of Wrigley Field 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 rollercoaster 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 the Old Man in a recliner and ratty old cap, his fair weather fan wife, and a perplexed dog.

Cubs fans watching the final game on the Wrigley Field Jumbotron expressed the joy of generations.

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.

 

Monday, September 7, 2020

The Working Class Virtue of Solidarity—A Murfin Labor Day Speech

This contemporary Labor Day cartoon is meant to be humorous but speaks to reality--the bosses are always on the backs of working people and have been since Labor Day was made a federal holiday at a sop to the union movement after the Pullman Strike of 1893 was crushed.

Note:  It will feel strange not addressing the annual Labor Day Celebration in Woodstock Square this year.  About the time my run of Labor Day services at my Unitarian Universalist congregation (see yesterday’s blog post) came to an end McHenry County Progressives and local Democrats began annual celebration on Labor Day afternoon.  It was my privilege to be asked to speak—and to host one year—from 2015 to last year.  Today we will look back at my talk in 2016—the last Presidential election year.  Specifics about that race are now dated, but the themes they represent are all back this year, as you can read.  My remarks on the working class virtue of solidarity were adapted from earlier material, including one of the UU sermons.
The Old Man soapboxing from the Gazeebo in Woodstock Square in 2016.
We gathered here last year [2015] for the first time, a small band of folks called together by some local fans of Bernie Sanders who wanted to celebrate his hero Eugene V. Debs and his connection to Woodstock.  As a fan of both and an old Wobbly and a soapboxer, I was thrilled to be asked to participate.
A lot has happened in the last year and here we are again.  Bernie Sanders, thanks to folks like those who organized the Labor Day event, went from being an obscure longshot, to the leader of a wide and deep political revolution, and came tantalizingly close to winning the Democratic Party nomination.  When he didn’t some folks were heartbroken, other mad.  Some picked up their toys and went home in a sulk and huff.  Some picked up Bernie’s challenge to keep the Revolution going by going deep and wide—running for local office and trying to recapture Congress from troglodyte Republicans.  That’s what the folks here in McHenry County have done.
Some folks swore that no matter what they would never vote for Hillary Clinton, who apparently has horns and is the spawn of Satan, no matter what, no way, no how.  Others have either swallowed hard and followed Bernie’s appeal and decided to vote for Hillary, or with more enthusiasm vowed to actively work for her election along with the rest of the Democratic ticket.
People who were comrades in the campaign struggle a couple of months ago but are on opposite sides of the Hillary divide, are hurling invectives at one another, denouncing each other as traitors or saboteurs.  Relationships have been shattered.  That longed for political revolution is crippled by dissention.
Meanwhile genuine naked fascism has arisen as a mass movement and swallowed the traditional conservative party.  Ordinary Americans who have seen their lives and futures sacrificed time and again to corporate greed have been taught to blame their woes on a rotating cast of others—Mexicans and emigrants this week, Muslims and refugees next, women, gays, Black lives Matter protesters, scientists, the sick and the elderly.  Violence is in the air like the whiff of gunpowder.
In light of all this, on this Labor Day I want to commend to you the working class virtue of solidarity even if you have never considered yourself a worker. 
First we need to consider what solidarity is not….
Solidarity is not sympathy.  Sympathy is a passive emotion.  It also implies a separation from the object of sympathy and can teeter on pity, which is just sympathy tinged with revulsion. Empathy might be closer to the meaning in that it implies a common understanding of the distress.  But empathy is also passive.  Solidarity demands action.
Solidarity is not charity.  Charity implies a power and privilege differential.  The more powerful and more privileged deign to give to the less fortunate who are expected to respond with appropriate gratitude and humility.  Solidarity is mutual aid among equals.
Solidarity is not altruism.  Altruism is supposedly selfless giving requiring sacrifice but expecting no reward—except perhaps praise for being saint-like.  Solidarity recognizes the commonality of our conditions and expects to by right receive support as well as give it.
Solidarity is not family.  Families—and by extension surrogate families like clans, nations, religions, races and others—are expected to support their members out of blood obligation.  Solidarity demands respect for commonality with the other.  Solidarity with the stranger dismantles walls and promotes peace instead of a mad scramble over scarce resources.
Solidarity is not utopian.  Utopians conjure up sweet dreams of the perfect.  Utopians may simply drift on in the opium cloud of that dream. More dangerously, some utopians construct rigid ideologies around their vision which eventually require the ruthless suppression of anything and anyone not in conformity to that ideology.  Solidarity is rooted in the common realities we face together and is interested in addressing the roots of the problems as well as ameliorating the immediate effects.

Solidarity by Käthe Kollwitz

Solidarity is not all warm and fuzzy.  Warm and fuzzy denies oppression.  Solidarity recognizes that there are those whose own narrow self-interest causes them to exploit, subjugate, and abuse others.  And solidarity demands common action to defend against such depredations and—yes—boldly to ultimately defeat the oppressors.
Solidarity is a recognition of our place in humanity, an ethic, and an active response to our common interests.
Solidarity enlarges our communities, builds bridges of respect that can span differences.  It does not demand lock-step conformity to some ideological purity to act together in mutual support.  It requires listening, really listening and not just waiting our turn to deliver a lecture.  When generations of feminists support Hillary Clinton passionately it means not sneering that they are voting their vaginas, but understanding why and ultimately standing with them just as we hope that they will stand with us for the dismantlement of corporate power. 
Solidarity builds bridges across divides and requires mutual respect and support.
Solidarity requires humility and taking the risk of having our fragile identities challenged.  We cannot give more than lip service to Black Lives Matter unless we understand and take ownership of the White privilege understanding it is not a moral flaw but a condition we are born to.  By breaking down our defenses we can collaborate in our mutual liberation with respect and understanding.
Most of all, solidarity requires commitment and action.  There are no sidelines, no room for mere cheerleaders.  Each and every one of us are called to put our bodies and our lives on the  line again and again in some meaningful ways.  And we are buoyed by the knowledge that others are prepared to do the same for us.
Can we make a promise this Labor Day to commit to the working class virtue of solidarity?  Can we face the challenges not just of the coming elections, but in defending women’s bodies and choice, dismantlement the new slavery of mass incarceration, and standing in the Spirit Camp of the Standing Rock Sioux as they defend all of our water.  There is a lot to do.  No individual can do it all. But we can all do something.
Solidarity Forever--a Depression era poster by Anita Wilcox.
In the words of Ralph Chaplin in the great anthem of the Working Class:
In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold;
Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand-fold.
We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old,
For the Union makes us strong!