FITTEDSWEATS

Ever since the playoffs started, I've heard a lot of people crying about how the Cubs let them down again in the post season. Acting like someone took a pliers to one of their ribs and twisted it. Cut the drama. I don't care.

The 2003 playoffs---the whole Steve Bartman thing...the posting on Craigslist, then having to get in a weird car on 5th Avenue to re-sell the Yankees World Series tickets I foolishly purchased because I was certain the Cubs would be coming to town to face them--this all was very painful to me.

In 2008, I am at peace.

I've been a Cubs fan since the mid 1970s. My dad used to pull me out of school to go to Cubs games. To Opening Day. Every year. We were not rich. But this was, for some, reason a priority. They were a horrible, horrible team. But they had Bruce Sutter, when and if they needed him. They also had Larry Biitner and Tarzan Joe Wallis and Ivan DeJesus.

I had been at Wrigley Field the day it was announced that Elvis was dead. We were watching NBC News at Bernie's after the game.

I learned about politics from the bleacher bums.

I learned about Bill Veeck's gimmicks from my dad.

I was given the finger by a kid my age once, walking down the street near the stadium. He was sitting in an open window. I was staring.

Phillies 23, Cubs 22 I was at this game. We went from Eau Claire to Chicago in a semi truck. Took a bus from the far north side to the ballpark. Took a train to the suburbs, afterwards. Rode in a car to the airport. And flew home. This is how crazy we were.

At home in Wisconsin, I'd race to the store to buy the Chicago Tribune every day in the summer, then clip all of the Cubs stuff out of it. Glue it to something. That fucking Sam Zell won't even distribute a hard copy of the paper in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, any more. I don't blame him. How could that have ever been profitable? Still, he's a fucking reptile.

I've had Dave Kingman ask me what my problem was when I asked him for an autograph.



He was driving a little Oldsmobile or Buick two-door out of the team parking lot, where eager fans would congregate for hours, it seemed. I was 9. My dad would point to Bernie's, then wander over there, leaving me to wait it out. After the Kingman incident, the Cubs head of security was having a beer at Bernie's before it became frat hell. They used to LOCK their doors after games. Bernie didn't want customers. The security guy was named Joe Dawson. He was a crotchety old timer. He overheard my tale of woe. He said Kingman was a dumb son-of-a-bitch. The next day Dawson let me sit in the Cubs dugout during batting practice. I could have stayed the whole game, but I got freaked out when I saw the players running in from the field. Ernie Banks was doing some job for the team then. He was wearing a yellow blazer, hanging around the dugout. He signed my glove. Dawson later handed me a paper sack with an autographed ball from Kingman. He walked us through the radio and TV area. We were two shlubs from only a few hundred miles away. Dawson treated us like we were visiting diplomats. I'd like to find his relatives. Send them a card or something.

This is a day that is impossible for me to forget.

In the 1980s, we kept going. Pretty near every summer. We often ate corned beef sandwiches from the Thorndale Deli before the game--it was nowhere near the ballpark, really. Or had a pizza at Laurie's afterwards. I learned to play Pac Man there. I got my picture taken with Leon Durham once outside of the ballpark. A friend who was with us challenged me about how good Durham was. He proceeded to hit about nine doubles that day and shut this goon up who was lucky to even be on the damn trip. I met tons and tons of players. Little scrubs like Mick Kelleher, or Ray Burris. John Milner from the Pirates once ran interference for Dave Parker, who was literally one foot away from both Milner and I, saying Dave wasn't going to sign any autographs, as they strolled around the neighborhood after the game.

I wonder if he'd sign one today.

Ryne Sandberg's big day on June 23rd, 1984 was unforgettable, too. I remember watching it on TV with my parents. I'd been at a swimming pool and smelled like chlorine for the remainder of the day. I'd ridden bikes there with some friends. One of them stopped suddenly and I racked my penis on the bolt of the handlebars as I ran into his bike. I was certain it would leave a permanent scar. I remember investing 50% of my energy in the game, and 50% of my energy worried about my dick. This was a valid concern for a kid in junior high. I'm fine now, by the way.

In 1989, I called Ticketmaster and got through. We saw the Cubs lose a playoff game to the Giants. Sat in the bleachers.

I followed the team off and on in the 1990s. I'd grown up and we didn't go as a family much anymore. I went with kids my age who smoked one-hits in the bleachers. I wore a black mock turtleneck from an ACA JOE store I'd happened upon downtown. You really have to wonder about my judgement sometimes.

In the mid-1990s, I called Harry Caray at home once. For an interview that never ran. My questions weren't really questions. They were hypothetical things. Little tangents. I was hoping to get him excited. He sounded tired and confused. He ended up calling me "pal" and not in an endearing way. The interview ended shortly thereafter.

1998 was exciting. I had no career, nor any money to speak of, so I didn't make it to the playoffs nor any regular season games. The last time I had been at Wrigley Field was during that freaky heat wave of 1995. I was writing about Lollapalooza for SPIN's new-fangled partnership with AOL, and had a day off. A couple of days later, in Detroit, I was beaten 22 or 23 to NOTHING in ping-pong by Bob Nastanovich. Do you realize how untalented you have to be to get skunked in ping-pong? There wasn't even much volleying. Look for a big, dopey jackass in this video. It is bound to be me. Waltzing backstage, begging off any more ping-pong. Once was enough.

Oh well. I also, like every good fan in 1998, just thought Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire lifted a lot of weights. Evidence of McGwire's neck acne never alerted me to anything other than that he reminded me of a more jock James Hetfield. I hate Metallica. A semi-rock star I know once talked about sitting around doing coke with them. Doing coke with Metallica would be like seeing Satan's taint. I'd rather lose all of my possessions in a flood. And I'd rather do community service until 2028 than listen to Mark McGwire or Rafael Palmeiro (former Cub) mumble angrily about 'roid usage.

The 2003 season was great, then maddening. No one could have made Steve Bartman up. No one could have made Juan Fucking Pierre up either. I ended up dumping my Series tickets to some middle-aged pederast that would only buy them from me in a moving vehicle. Why? I have no idea. All I knew was that I had to get rid of them.

In the spring of 2004, I went to one game at Wrigley. My first time in years. Were that many jugheads always at the games? Really jumbo intolerant, entitled Wendy's-fed sides of beef getting tanked and getting loud.

Then, last year, falling apart against the Diamondbacks. That hurt.

This year. An amazing regular season. Best in my lifetime. I saw zero games in person. What else is new? I live half a country away. I have two small kids. I watched the televised games when I could. My dad is in the hospital in Wisconsin now. He will be there for a while. My mom took the opportunity to come visit us here. We watched most of the Dodgers series together. I saw the Cubs score maybe one of the few runs they put on the board. They fell apart completely. Across three games. It felt inevitable. This is not meant to be a cliche. I am not a guy who likes Joe Torre or Manny Ramirez. I don't want Russell Martin to enjoy success. I despise that bearded fucker. There was literally nothing I could do as a fan, though. I couldn't pout. I couldn't sit in disbelief. (If you're a Cubs fan, how can you even feign surprise at this point). I couldn't put on a rally hat.

So a new perspective finally, slowly washed over me. It is this:

If you are a Cubs fan of any age, relish the fact that they may never win a World Series, much less get to one, before you die. And let's face it, "may" is really a stretch.

This is unique in its own ugly, pathetic way.

There are plenty of teams that have never won it all. Or even made it to a World Series. They have relatively shorter histories. The Cubs have been screwing things up in a different way each season, for 100 years.

Relish the fact that you are not a Red Sox fan, who now feel, every season, a bit more like Dallas Cowboys fans, in their certainty that God is on their side and that everyone in the country remains psyched about their uplifting little story, and their little antique stadium. And, wow, they can incorporate shamrocks into their gear, and drink Sammy Smith and Sammy Adams, and sing "Sweet Caroline."

Life was great when all I knew about the Red Sox was Fred Lynn, Luis Tiant, Jim Rice and Carlton Fisk and the Green Monster. And I didn't know that their fans were these Ben Affleck-meets-Staind-meets-Jimmy Fallon drunken douchecakes. There is nothing special about the Red Sox, and there was nothing special about them when they won it all. Johnny Damon aching to whip off that helmet every time he ran the bases just to show off that special glossy hairdo. The other guys' soiled helmets. We get it. You're knuckleheads. Millar, let me cut your hair, please. And Schilling, lord, please be quiet. Enough!! It's fitting that David Wells spent some time up in Boston. It is also fitting that Rudy Giuliani ended up wishing the Red Sox well, too. Like 9/11, New Yorkers should never forget that.

I need to shut up now. The Cubs claim George Will as a fan. Billy fucking Corgan. That alone negates any dis in the previous paragraph. Sorry, Mr. Damon. I wish Hank Steinbrenner would let you grow your hair, so you could do all of that magical stuff again (P.S. if you could send me a picture of your ex-wife Angie Vannice--this is the 90th time I've complained about this--please do so. You have no idea how many people wind up on this site looking for an Angie Vannice picture). Finally, if you want to figure out why the Cubs never win, forget the goddamn goat, it's because Jim Belushi is a Cubs fan.

I need to erase that stuff from my mind. And make my point:

Give me a team that can NEVER prevail. That will NEVER do it. That no matter how well things go for them, they will not go well at all in October. And maybe September. And August. And really, any time after May, most years. There is a certainty in this that right now, at least, is a lot more comforting than "surprise." Sure, on the years the Cubs get close, and do very well in the regular season, it is hard not to get sucked back in to believing. Don't do it though, Charlie Brown.

Keep losing Cubs. This fan doesn't hate you for it.

P.S. I feel bad for Carlos Zambrano. Derek Lee. Kerry Wood. These guys deserve a ring. Zambrano will get one with another team at some point. I hope.

P.P.S. I don't look forward to seeing Mark Cuban pouting in his box seat. Mark, despite what I've written in the past, please, don't buy the team. You fit really well in Dallas. Try and re-sign Shawn Bradley if you can.

P.P.P.S. White Sox, you're on your own.