Some choices in life are hard. We make them before we have all the facts. We pick a lane not knowing where it will take us or what the consequences of that decision will be. And in the unfairness of it all, we have to abide by that decision, right or wrong. You make your decision and stick to it like a grown man. Thats what becoming a Cubs fan is. Or at least it was for me. You see, I made that decision when I was six years old and never looked back. I didnt have a lot to go on either. I knew nothing about the pitching rotation. I had no idea what minor league prospects were in the pipeline. I didn't have a clue what a billy goat had to do with baseball. I only knew two things. One, I liked the colors. Two, they were the team my dad watched the most. However, I knew a decision must be made. Cubs or White Sox. In Chicago, you have to pick one. And so I did.
In the beginning it wasn't all bad. When I first really got into baseball, the Cubs actually had a decent lineup. They had Sandburg, and Mark Grace. Guys like Shawn Dunston were out there making plays. And they had my personal hero, the guy I would have swore to you was the greatest baseball player on planet Earth, The Hawk. Andre Dawson. In my first ever trip to the friendly confines at Wrigley Field, I only remember three things. The first thing I remember was some little obnoxious blond kid going on and on about how great Mark Grace was. That is until I leaned forward and told him to shut up and wait for Dawson to do something spectacular. The second thing I remember was Dawson making this impossible diving catch to rob some poor bastard of a hit to end the inning. And thirdly, and maybe most importantly. I remember Dawson going yard that game. I remember this more clearly than most events in my life. The way he strode to plate, and took a couple of practice swings, his Jheri curl glistening majestically in the afternoon sun. (And that was really the only way to describe his curl. It was simply majestic.) He takes the first two pitches and then launches a shot onto Waveland for some lucky pedestrian. As a shorty at his first game, it was euphoric.
Unfortunately that euphoria had to last for a while. We're talking decades. As my years of being a Cubs fan progressed, I started to understand that winning wasn't the norm for this ballclub. Years upon years of losing started to take their toll. And then a funny thing happened. My pride as a Cubs fan kicked in. I realized that as Cubs fans, we were truly the best fans in baseball, if not, all of sports. You see a Cubs fan is eternally optimistic. We come back year after year. Supporting our team. Believing this could be the year, despite all evidence to the contrary. There is probably nobody living that can say they remember a Cubs world series. If they say they do, and aren't 120 years old, they're lying. But every year we have hope. Some years even rightfully so.
If you remember the Kerry Wood/ Mark Prior years, you thought we had a shot. Or when Sammy Sosa was launching homer after homer with his corked bat filled with steroids. Every couple of years or so they bring is some 5 tool prospect who was going to be the kid that eventually got us over the hump, whether it was Corey Patterson or Felix Pie. And then there was the time we gave Alphonso Soriano a big bag of money to come here and be mediocre. Year after year we'd try and fall short, just to come back the following season with a renewed sense of optimism. And then came 2005.
Let me say this. I don't necessarily hate the White Sox. Hate involves energy and the Sox just were never worth wasting the energy over. But when they won the World Series in 2005 they celebrated in what seemed to me the most obnoxious way possible. Let me try to explain. See, every White Sox fan has a little bit of an inferiority complex. No matter how great of a season they have, they will always be kind of second fiddle to the Cubs. Even when they win, they can't celebrate without bringing up the Cubs lack of success. So when they won the title, it wasn't enough to celebrate winning. They always had to bring up the Cubs 100 plus year drought. Like it didn't take them 90 something years to win one. Even though the fact that they won the title was kind of a fluke and they have sucked every year since. Scores of people who didn't even watch baseball, all of a sudden, were claiming to be Sox fans, It was sickening. And no matter what argument you have to this day with a Sox fan, eventually they would bring up '05. But I didn't hate. I congratulate. But I did want my own. Enter St. Epstein.
Theo Epstein comes in, tears down everything, and builds it back up the right way. He told us it was going to take a couple of years and it did. But the payoff was well worth it. All of a sudden, the Cubs are loaded with young talent. We have more young superstars in the making that we can ever hope to keep long term. But that's a problem for another day. Right now we have them. Right now they're kicking ass. And right now Epstein has officially replaced Malcom Jamal Warner as my favorite Theo. Cause I believe. This is the year. This is the year that finally we get it done. And when it happens they'll be so much joy and pain and frustration and sorrow and memories crammed into the celebration. Everything from Harry Carey's Budweiser induced slur, to The Hawk's jheri curl, to Sammy Sosa's brightening cream will be part of the century of celebration that we finally get to let out. And I will reach back 31 years in time to give six year old me, the biggest high five, for making the right choice. Pain and sorrow fade over time. But hope springs eternal. Go Cubs Go!
