Someday, maybe
The champagne is still in the fridge.
I had it all planned, too. I was not only going to toast the Cubs--I was also ready to raise a glass to my distant cousin George. I never met him, but his love of the Cubs was legendary in my family. In the 1940s, he moved to Wrigleyville just so he could be closer to the team. He didn't get a World Series either.
If Tuesday's game was about horrified realization, last night's game was bitter resignation. There were a few heart-lifting moments, such as Kerry Wood's homer, when you let yourself believe they might just turn it around after all. Alas.
Well, there was one horrified realization last night--mine. If it takes them this long again to go as far as the '84 Cubs, I'll be 51 years old. And if it takes them another 58 years to get the World Series, I'll be 90. But I have a feeling it won't take that long. Is that hope? I dunno. Too soon to tell.
Instead, it's time to put this season to rest. The only proper way is with the best Cubs song ever written. Stevie Goodman was a lifelong Cubs fan, so he knew what he was talking about. He left us a long time ago, and this song is not yet out of date. Prescient. For his sake, and Jack's, and Harry's, and my cousin's, I hope the Cubs games turn out differently in Heaven.
The Dying Cubs Fan's Last Request
By the shores of old Lake Michigan,
Where the hawk wind blows so cold,
An old Cub fan lay dying
In his midnight hour it's told.
Round his bed, his friends had all gathered;
They knew his time was short.
And on his head they put this bright blue cap
From his all-time favorite sport.
He told them, "It's late and it's getting dark in here.
And I know it's time to go
But before I leave the lineup, boys, there's just one thing I'd like to know...
Do they still play the blues in Chicago
When baseball season rolls around?
When the snow melts away, do the Cubbies still play
On their ivy-covered burial ground?
When I was a boy they were my pride and joy,
But now they only bring fatigue
To the home of the brave,
The land of the free
And the doormat of the National League."
He told his friends, "You know the law of averages says: Anything will happen that can.
That's what it says.
But the last time the Cubs won a National League pennant
Was the year we dropped the bomb on Japan.
The Cubs made me a criminal, sent me down a wayward path;
They stole my youth from me
(that's the truth).
I'd forsake my teachers to go sit in the bleachers
In flagrant truancy."
"And then one thing led to another
and soon I'd discovered alcohol, gambling, dope, football, hockey, lacrosse, tennis...
But what do you expect,
When you raise up a young boy's hopes
And then just crush 'em like so many paper beer cups.
Year after year after year after year, after year, after year, after year, after year.
'Til those hopes are just so much popcorn
for the pigeons beneath the El tracks to eat."
He said, "You know I'll never see Wrigley Field anymore before my eternal rest.
So if you have your pencils and your scorecards ready,
I'll read you my last request."
He said, "Give me a double-header funeral in Wrigley Field
On some sunny weekend day (no lights).
Have the organ play the National Anthem
and then a little "Na, na, na, na, hey hey, hey, goodbye."
Make six bullpen pitchers carry my coffin
and six groundskeepers clear my path.
Have the umpires bark me out at every base in all their holy wrath.
It's a beautiful day for a funeral. Hey Ernie, let's play two!
Somebody go get Jack Brickhouse to come back
and conduct just one more interview.
Have the Cubbies run right out into the middle of the field;
Have Keith Moreland drop a routine fly.
Give everybody two bags of peanuts and a frosty malt, and I'll be ready to die.
Build a big fire on home plate out of your Louisville Slugger baseball bats,
And toss my coffin in.
Let my ashes blow in a beautiful snow
From the prevailing 30-mile-an-hour southwest wind.
And when my last remains go flying over the left field wall,
I'll bid the bleacher bums adieu,
And I will come to my final resting place, out on Waveland Avenue."
The dying man's friends told him to cut it out.
They said, "Stop it--that's an awful shame!"
He whispered, "Don't cry. We'll meet by and by, near the heavenly Hall of Fame."
He said, "I've got season tickets to watch the Angels now,
So that's just what I'm going to do.
But you, the living, you're stuck here with the Cubs,
So its me that feels sorry for you!"
And he said, "Ahh play, play that lonesome losers tune.
That's the one I like the best."
And he closed his eyes, and slipped away.
It was the Dying Cub Fan's Last Request.
And here it is.
Do they still play the blues in Chicago
When baseball season rolls around?
When the snow melts away, do the Cubbies still play
On their ivy-covered burial ground?
When I was a boy they were my pride and joy,
But now they only bring fatigue
To the home of the brave,
The land of the free
And the doormat of the National League.
(Thanks to Baseball Almanac.com for refreshing me on the lyrics.)
