Okay. Just in case of the unthinkable, the city of Chicago, and die-hard fans all across the country - and indeed, the world - are going to need a scapegoat (no pun intended). At the risk of life and limb, I officially volunteer.
When I grew up on the southwest side of Chicago, I was nominally a Sox fan. I say nominally because I really didn't like sports. I stunk at Little League, I thought (correctly as it turned out) golf was tedious nonsense, and football was some arcane ritual that cut into the shows I wanted to watch on Sundays. I couldn't understand how the last two minutes of the game could take forty-five minutes to play.
Occasionally my dad would get home from work, and hustle me and Bunce and whatever kids we were playing with into the station wagon. As we drove off, he'd yell out the window to a neighbor, "I'm taking them to the ball game."
He invariably meant Comiskey Park and the Sox. Now that was fun. My dad didn't like buying us hotdogs because they weren't kosher, but we could have all the popcorn, peanuts and crackerjack we could stomach.
Plus, my dad bought each of us a souvenir program to keep score, although I didn't know how. But I liked paging through the pictures and articles while there wasn't anything going on on the field. Which to me was most of the time.
Sure, I liked Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Fergie Jenkins, and the voice of Jack Brickhouse, but I have not stretched during a 7th inning in close to fifty years.
Yet, since I don't live under a rock, I have been following what that other Chicago baseball team has been doing of late. My wife asked me this morning if I knew the outcome of last night's game, and I said, "There's going to be a game seven."
She said, "Do you know when they're playing? I'd like to watch."
"Yes," I said. "Tonight. If I watch, that would jinx 'em for sure. It's going to come down to the bottom of the 9th in game seven of the World Series."
Cubs fans everywhere can vent their anger and frustration at one person. (Cleveland fans, we can talk about my statue later.)
I shall be forever known as the man who single-handedly prevented the Cubs from winning the championship. I shall be remembered along with a tavern owner's pet billy goat, Al Capone's secret vault, and Mrs. O'Leary's cow.
So, I'll be watching, and we can all see together what happens. And who to curse, so to speak. And if there is no joy in Mudville, there's always next year.
Baaaaaaad Billygoat!
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