“As my dad realized in the ’50s, there’s something liberating about knowing your team is going to lose. With the outcome sealed, you become free to enjoy the game and the experience of the ballpark for whatever it is. Sometime in the middle of the incredible, marathon, rain-delayed epic that was Game 7, I came to that conclusion myself.”
Rob Arthur, fivethirtyeight.com
I so much wanted to be like Rob Arthur’s dad. I thought I would be. All day Wednesday, after the Cubs had secured that beautiful, rare jewel that is a World Series Game 7, I told myself: “We’ve broken the NL Pennant curse, and I’m overjoyed at that. The team has shown incredible resilience; they did not roll over and die like so many past Cubs teams.” I repeated it, over and over again: “I am going to enjoy this game, win or lose, close or blowout, because, for the first (and maybe only) time in my life, the Cubs are playing in a World Series Game 7. I will enjoy it because it’s baseball, and I love baseball, and I will enjoy it however it unfolds.” In other words, I would be a baseball fan first, and a Cubs fan second.
********
And I really was, for a while. I told the kids they could stay up late tonight and watch Game 7. Of course, I was thrilled when Dexter drilled a leadoff homerun, but neither did I get particularly upset when Carlos Santana drove in the first Indians run. I was happy when the Cubs got two more, and then two more again. The score was 5-1, and I almost--but didn’t--tell Sonia, “If we lose it now, perhaps the curse is still alive.”
However, the damage was still done: I expected a win.
Perhaps I should explain a bit more. Us Cubs fans are a superstitious bunch. Very early on this postseason, I started a text group with family, friends and coworkers, all Cubs fans, and shared thoughts during the games. It was fun, and it provided community. But in Game 6 of the NLCS, the Cubs ready to clinch, we got out to an early lead, and I thought, “Texting can only ruin this.” The Cubs won and clinched the National League. I didn’t text during a game the rest of the postseason. Before and after, sure. But not during.
To expect a win, to say it looks good, to hint it might be coming, to even think it might be coming: to a Cubs fan, that is to invite disaster and heartbreak.
********
By the time the rain delay was called, after the ninth inning, I was a shell of a man. I had no idea how long the delay would go, so I sent my boys to bed. I was exhausted. I was a ball of nerves and the nerves were frazzled. I considered going to bed myself; after all, I reasoned, maybe if I went to bed, maybe they would play better, maybe they would stop giving up leads. I would be happy to forgo watching if it meant the Cubs would win the World Series.
Clearly, I had failed in my goal. Whatever happened to Rob Arthur, the exact opposite had happened to me. I was now a Cubs fan first, WAY first, and a baseball fan second, WAY second. Baseball could go to hell for all I was concerned. How did that happen?
Oddly enough, I think I can pinpoint the transition point exactly: it was in the bottom of the fifth inning. Maddon brought Lester in; I wasn’t sure about the timing, but I gave up second guessing Joe a long time ago. With runners on 2nd and 3rd, Lester bounced a 57 footer to retiring David Ross, who took it straight off the mask. Ross, knocked off balance, got his feet tangled up and couldn’t get to the ball. Jason Kipnis scored all the way from second.
I told Niko, “I hope you saw that because it will be a long time before you see two guys score on a wild pitch again.” And then I thought Fuck. Only the Cubs. Only the Cubs have two guys score on wild pitch in their biggest game ever. As if to drive it home, Joe Buck said, “The last time two men scored on wild pitch in postseason play was in 1911, when [catcher’s name] refused to go get the ball.”
The score was 5-3 and I was pissed. If Jason Kipnis had hit a two run homerun I wouldn’t have been pissed. But goddamn it, two runs scoring on a wild pitch because our catcher got knocked on his ass by a pitch? Without even realizing it, I began to tense up. It didn’t matter when Lester got out of the inning without further damage, or even when David Ross hit a homerun to make it 6-3. I was convinced Ross’ homerun was only a little torture so that the inevitable smackdown would hurt even more. I became silent. I read Helter Skelter on my Kindle during commercials even though I’ve read it a hundred times because I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts, let alone actually talk with anyone.
Chapman came in in the eighth. The Cubs led by three with a man on. Four outs to win. Despite knowing better, I was beginning to hope again. Brandon Guyer was hitting. Brandon fucking Guyer. Of course he ripped a two-strike, two out double. 6-4, Cubs. Rajai Davis came up. Rajai fucking Davis. Of course Rajai Davis, who hadn’t homered since August, ripped one down the line against Chapman, who hadn’t given up a homerun since June 18. Of course it was 6-6.
And of course I wasn’t watching a great baseball game, a World Series Game 7, what will probably go down as one of the top 10 games ever. I was just another Cubs fan, wallowing in self-pity, dying on the inside, wishing I had never even heard of the Cubs, maybe even the whole goddamn sport of baseball, because it was never gonna happen anyway.
*********
Sonia was asleep on the couch. The kids were in bed. I wandered through the house, a zombie, somewhere between consciousness and elsewhere. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason, I only felt wiped. I had my Kindle in my hand. I ended up laying on my bed reading Helter Skelter. Manson, Sharon Tate, the Beatles. In the distance sounds began to penetrate through my daze. Joe Buck, John Smoltz, somebody, was saying Kyle Schwarber has hit a single after the rain delay.
Some force, from somewhere, pulled me off of the bed. I didn’t have my glasses on, didn’t know where they were. They were dropped off at some point in my aimless wandering. I grabbed a stool from the kitchen and sat two feet from the television set so I could see. Maybe I shouldn’t be watching. Schwarber got a hit when I wasn’t watching. But I kept watching. Watched Almora pinch run. What if we need Schwarber’s bat later? Watched Bryant drive it deep, watched Almora make a brilliant baserunning play and get to second on the tag. Watched them walk Rizzo. Smart move.
Zobrist. Oh God please Zobrist. Two strikes. Oh my God he it it! We lead. It doesn’t matter we’ll probably blow it. They walk Russell. Montero. Oh my God another hit! A two run lead! Maybe...maybe...maybe...can we hold that?
Three outs. I don’t look for my glasses during the commercial. We scored when I wasn’t wearing them. I pace. I sit back down on my stool. All I can feel, all I can hear, all I can think, is my heart beating like John Bonham.
Carl Edwards Jr. takes the mound. Can this guy do it? Napoli out. Next guy out. Two outs. Next guy on (Brandon fucking Guyer), takes second. Rajai Davis. Motherfucking Rajai Davis. Singles. 8-7.
Mike Montgomery. Commercial. I pace. Back to the stool. Michael Martinez, for the Indians. Curveball, strike. Curve ball, dribbler towards third, Bryant charges, throws to Rizzo, third out, Cubs win.
I’m not sure if my heart is beating anymore because I am one with it. I don’t jump, don’t yell. I don’t look at the screen. I slide off the stool and fall down on Sonia. “The Cubs just won the World Series,” I say. They’re words, nothing else. “Congratulations,” she says. “They deserve it. You deserve it.” “I’m going to tell the kids,” I say. Niko and Orlando are out cold. I wake them up and tell them “The Cubs just won the World Series.” It’s only words. They only convey a message. I tell them they can get up and watch the celebration if they want. They’re already back asleep.
The game’s been over for about two minutes and I’m walking up the steps when it finally, really, actually, hits me. The Cubs just won the motherfucking World Series. I scream and yell and jump and drink NA beer and I don’t stop for two hours. I don’t know how I’m gonna work tomorrow and I don’t care.
No comments:
Post a Comment