Cubs Fans Learn Perspective

I was speaking with a friend of mine, Shannon, a Cubs fan since childhood, decked out in her Chicago shirt and hat. It was the middle of Game 6 of the World Series. She was waitressing and I was sitting with other friends watching the game at a restaurant I like to go to on my evening off. She swung by the bar and asked me, "You're a Yankee fan, right?"

"Yeah, right."

"How do you handle this? You guys are in the playoffs like, every year. The pressure is killing me."

"We pace ourselves." I explained.

I wasn't going to tell someone who's team hadn't won a pennant since just after V-J Day, and last Series crown came when there were 46 stars on the American Flag some sob story about my guys missing out on serious October baseball, as New York radio personality Steve "the Schmoozer" Somers calls it, three out of the last four seasons. The Yankees have had more post seasons than years this young woman's been alive. In a way, we do pace ourselves, because Yankee fans have perspective. We're always grateful for making the tournament, but some years we know that we don't have it, or there are other teams that are just better. So, we curb our expectations. We've been through the mill a few times. Even if we had a great regular season, and we think that we should be considered the rightful favorites, things don't always work out. For all the times we've won, we've lost some heart breakers as well. Do I have to mention 2004? 

Cubs fans have, better put had, no perspective. Until 11:44 pm Central Daylight Time Wednesday night all they knew was disappointment the few times over the years they actually made it to extra baseball. Otherwise, when mathematical elimination came, usually weeks before the regular schedule was completed, they contented themselves with being the "Lovable Losers." This is a fan base whose local newspapers run stories reminiscing over second place finishes and first round exits. They have no perspective, to say the least. 

I remember 2003. I was in the midst of my first assignment here in Chicago. The Cubs were skating along, hovering around .500, but in the race because of the weak competition in the Central that season. Then they caught fire in September, going 19-8, to win the division by one game. They actually lost the day they clinched, but the fans at Wrigley went wild, nonetheless. Center fielder Kenny Lofton, veteran of many post season disappointments, including two World Series losses, didn't get the euphoria. He said to the TV reporter - who was breathlessly asking the experienced pro for his first impression of the scene at the Friendly Confines, and I paraphrase, "I don't know what they (the fans) are getting so excited about. We haven't won anything yet."

Lofton didn't get it. He had perspective, Cubs fans didn't. They were basking in the moment, in that childhood spell that tells you anything is possible. They never knew victory, at least not the ultimate victory, and the North Siders who had were long gone to their eternal reward. They wanted to celebrate, anything. That they were celebrating a division title the way fans in New York or Boston celebrate a World Series can be chalked up to that lack of perspective born of innocence. They were grateful for just having made it. They wanted to celebrate because, in light of all the disappointments of the previous 95 years, they weren't sure when they would have the chance again. This itself is having things in perspective in a way, isn't it?

That night, Shannon also shared with me the thought that winning might not be such a great thing, after all. She wanted them to win, of course, but in finally breaking the "Curse" the Cubbies would be just like everyone else. That lovable loser image had become a badge of honor: Cubs fans stick with their team, sell out Wrigley, have a national following beyond Chicagoland, and this loyalty is not rooted in how many titles they have won. There is no Cubs bandwagon. As Eddie Vedder sings, these are "not fair-weather but foul-weather fans." Now, if victory came, what would make them different? 

The jaded Yankees fan in me saw this as the baseball version of Stockholm syndrome. I wondered if North Siders have been the subject of such outrageous fortune so often, from the collapse of 1969, to throwing victory into the jaws of defeat in 1984, to the debacle, unfairly placed on the shoulders of a solitary fan, that did indeed spoil what was an otherwise magical 2003 run, to the just plain mediocrity interspersed between sporadic playoff appearances, that they've been knocked down so often that such emotional beat downs felt like a kiss? Could it be that, in their overall lack of perspective, Cubby fans had become totally deranged, identifying so closely with the abuse that the baseball gods have inflicted upon them that they though that losing was actually a good thing - a cause whose flag had to be flown?

Well, there are no such things as "baseball gods," just as there was never any "Curse of the Billy Goat." I was frustrated by the added myth that losing conferred nobility, and to continue down the road of futility somehow was its own reward. Losing can build character, true, and the victory is only really sweet after a hard fought struggle, "but enough is enough, already," I thought. There is a difference between long suffering sacrifice that leads to a goal and masochism, and these fans had obviously lost perspective, if they ever had it to begin with.

Wednesday night I started watching the Game 7 at home, but had to pick up the Vice Provincial at O'Hare. He is doing the yearly visitation in place of the Provincial. I watched until about the seventh inning. Fr. Greg, a life long Red Sox fan (yes, we get along well) and I were in agreement that Cubs skipper Joe Maddon was over managing the game, specifically his pitchers. Kyle Hendricks, the starter was rolling, practically un-hittable, when he was lifted for Jon Lester after 4 and two-thirds. We are both clear minded fans of the game, and have perspective born of both victory and defeat. We could see a manager losing his own perspective, and Joe Maddon was so caught up in a combination of advanced metrics  and myth making that he couldn't see the obvious: that the game wasn't broke, so he didn't need to fix it. 

Hendricks had given up a walk, and Maddon took this as the opportunity to go with his ace. Its a sexy move managers in elimination games like pull. The warrior hurler, coming off mega-short rest who puts it all on the line to ensure victory for the team. Madison Bumgarner, the San Francisco ace, accomplished such a feat in 2014, solidifying his reputation as the iron horse of the pitching rubber. This is usually done when the team is behind by a run or clinging to a slim lead, and the starter is shaky, but this game was 5-1 Cubs at that point. Lester was coming in on two days rest, and with a runner on first base. As a lefty, one would expect that he should have a good pick-off move, but he doesn't. His aversion to throwing to any base but home keeps him from even trying to field batted balls, unless they are hit right at him. Catcher David Ross had to rush a throw on a slow grounder that, arguably, Lester should have fielded, putting runners on second and third after said throw went up the right field line for an error. A wild pitch later, two runs were in and the Indians were back in the game. You could feel the momentum switch, in spite of Ross' solo homer in the top the next inning. 

I left, and while I was driving the eerily empty streets of the North West Side, Aroldis Chapman, the flame throwing closer, who was already overworked because of the quick hook Maddon had the night before with the equally effective starter Jake Arrieta, came in the game. As I approached the railroad crossing on River Road the red lights began to flash, the guard rails came down and the Tribe's Rajai Davis pulled a two run homer down the left field line to tie the game. I wasn't sure if I was going to run off the road or plow into the freight train barreling down the tack toward the Loop. 

I also wasn't sure what I was angrier at: that Maddon was in the process of managing the Cubs out of a World Series win, or that I, a jaded Yankees fan cared so much. "Perspective," I kept on telling myself, "Perspective. You want them to win, of course, but don't lose your head." I was thinking of the fans, and not in some abstract way. I thought of Shannon, but also Enrique, a parishioner who seems to have a different Cubs shirt for each day of the week, and waited nine hours on line for Game 4 tickets (God only knows what he paid). I thought of Edwin, the son of one our leading parishioners who's bled Cubby Blue his whole life. I thought of an entire city (except for the most hardened White Sox fans) that was living and dying with this team, on this run. They took losing in the playoffs last year in stride, confident that the foundation had been laid for a winner in 2016. Now here they were, so close after going down 3-1 to a sold Cleveland team, to finally breaking through. And it was all evaporating because their manager was being too clever by half. I was angry, and didn't care much about perspective at that point.

When I hit the airport I was shocked to see that all the TV monitors in the terminal were switched to CNN. As the streets had been unusually devoid of traffic, so was O'Hare overcome by a preternatural emptiness. Only a very few were milling about the Starbucks kiosk at Terminal 2 Baggage Claim, heads in their cell phones and tablets trying to follow the action the best they could. The flight was late. There were thunderstorms in and around Chicago all day, and everything was delayed coming in and out. I traversed the subterranean passages connecting the terminals to the O'Hare Hilton and watched from the peripheries of the bar on the main level. The crowd was thick, but the mood was still hopeful, but tense. One of the servers weaved through the loiterers and as she brushed past I could hear her mutter, with eyes looking into the mid-distance, "I can't take this tension." When the Cubs failed to score I too was overcome with frustration and decided to go back and wait for the Vicar at baggage.  

After the 17 minute rain delay, which ended as we hit the road, we heard the go ahead runs score. We got home in time  to see the final three outs, and pop a bottle of champagne I had chilling since the NLCS ended. The sound of fire works began to fill the night, just as it had done when they clinched the pennant 12 days before. We - Fr. Tim, the Vice Provincial, Fr. Greg and Fr. Rich toasted, but Greg and I were still sore about the needless drama caused by an overanxious manager.

In the days that followed I realized that I was the one who needed perspective. They had won, finally. The city was overjoyed. "Let it go, and cherish the moment," I thought. "This wasn't the time for you to be the overly critical Yankee fan, for whom it seems even winning isn't enough." But I had allowed myself to get emotionally involved beyond all reason. 

Mine wasn't the most extreme case of getting caught up in the moment, though. Joe "the Cop", a retired Chicago police officer told me that during Game 7, "My heart was pounding and my chest was getting tight. It felt like I was back walking point in Vietnam. I'm thinkin', 'What in the (heck) am I gettin' so excited about? I mean, I ain't got no money on this or nothin'.'" Yeah, he knew that he had lost all perspective, but that's what fans of this beautiful game do when it really matters. We may lose all perspective, if we still keep our innocence, though, it's glorious. 

Now that I am a man, I've put childish ways behind me. I see the game with adult eyes and sensibilities. That's fine, to a point. But we should never lose that ability to accept the good things and bad that can happen when you're playing without a clock, and the only thing that can save you or stop you is the next pitch. It's looking at the game as a child does, with wide eyed wonder. 

As for me, I think I gained some perspective too. Friday, the day of the victory parade that snaked its way from Wrigley to Grant Park in the Loop, I was in my office, watching the festivities as they streamed online. The kids from the charter school we lease to were at recess. My office window faces the street, so I can hear them play in the parking lot, but can't see what they're doing. Suddenly I heard what seemed like an ocean of prepubescent voices singing out the refrain of the Steve Goodman song, "Go Cubs, Go! / Go Cubs, Go! Hey, Chicago, what a ya say? / The Cubs are gonna win today!" I though that maybe they were holding an organized rally for the younger kids who didn't go to the parade with the 7th and eighth graders. 

But, no. When I got to the kitchen window, the kids were skipping and jumping and playing as usual. The sing along was spontaneous, euphoric - encapsulating the wonder of youth. I remembered the first time my team won, when I was ten. I didn't second guess the manager back then, or worry about pitch counts or curse the shift. Back then I took in the poetry, the drama and the simple, romantic dream of men playing a boy's game. I found myself holding back tears, hoping that these children, and and all Cubs fans keep their innocence as they gain their well earned perspective.