Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel

Only in Chicago could a pesimist and a historian be able to foreshadow the same event. Today, the beloved Cardiac Cubbies have taken an extra big bite from the reality sandwich and choked, again. I really feel for the Cubs. Ok, not really. The Chicago Cubs are the boy who cries wolf. Every bloody March we hear, "this is our year. Next year is here." Well, hook up the Budweiser drip and watch the ivy as it mirrors another dying dream.

Even though I am a White Sox fan I do not root for a Cubs dimise. That is unnecessary, as the downfall is near genetic. Whomever puts on that jersey will have the chance to the greatest almost. That is what the Cubs are, The Chicago Almosts. I want Chicago to win. I am convinced I will never see the White Sox win a championship as long as Reinsdorf treats the team like the old Savings and Loan. Chicago knows that the Cubs are the only gleam of hope.

Baseball in Chicago has become a socially acceptable self mutilation. Even if Nomar stays, or Woods turns that self-righteous prima donna frown upside down and pitches, or the best free agents sign they will not win. There will be injuries (see this year), there will be scapegoats (see last year and many more) and there will be their toughest opponent; each other.

Part of me thinks that the Cubs are afraid to win. There is so much pressure for them to win that the if one championship was had the city would expect a dynasty. Correction, the nation would expect it. I say nation since retirement communities across the nation tune into the Cubs like its a Matlock marathon. If any Cubs player wants to win a World Series, they have to leave Chicago. It is the prestigous ex-Chicago factor (see Maddox).

My dear Cub fans, I love you all dearly. I love how you are blind to history. I love how you force you next of kin to embrace the life of misery from Waveland, Clark, and Addison. I love the desperate optimism that of next year being here (something I only have when I watch Top Gun and think that Goose will live). Most of all I love the sincere, awe struck reactions once the season ends. You are the people that after viewing Titanic, said, "Well I didn't see that coming."

Chicago's hope is just like those trademark vines, eternal and contained by a brick wall of reality. Hang in there kitty, I hear next year is less than 100 days from arriving here.