Stuck in the ’70s — It’s About Time You Came Back!

It’s a very, very depressing thing to be a Cubs fan right now. Of course, it’s always a bad thing to be a fan of the Cubbies.

It’s the top of the 9th, and the frickin’ Dodgers lead 9-1. We lost last night too. Both on home turf. We had the home field advantage for God’s sakes!! We only have to win 3 games!!! We’ve done that! We’ve won the central division title two years in a row now. We can do this!

At Wrigley, we stand on our feet when Zambrano pitches two strikes in a row. No one ever leaves their seats until the fat lady sings. Tonight, the pain in the faces in the crowd is unbearable. My face is synchronized. They showed one Cubs fan watching Dodgers home run #9, burying his face in his hands and not coming up for air any time soon.

1908. That’s the last time we won a World Series. My Grandpa Biddison would’ve been in his prime. He’d have been growing up listening to the Cubs games on the ol’ family radio. Decades went by, and Grandpa B. cussed those Cubs and he cussed those Cubs.

Grandpa B. had one of those big hearing aids, but he refused to wear it. Grandpa B. had a brass spittoon next to his chocolate brown naugahyde LaZBoy. He had a radio stand next to his chair, on the right. It was black with long legs, and painted with some sort of flowery thing on the front in red and white. It had a door on it that was made to look like two separate drawers. But, really, when you pulled the pull, it would swing open with hinges on the left side.

The rectangular black plastic radio with the white knobs and red needle atop the stand was always blasting the ballgame when the Cubs played. The TV set (truly a “set” with a wooden console) had the rabbit ears aimed at Chicago for the game on WGN. The volume button – yes, button, a sort of small knob that you had to walk across the room to control – was turned clockwise as far as allowed.

I sat upon Grandpa’s lap with my blue felt two-dollar Kmart Cubs hat atop my pony-tailed head. I had my mitt on my left hand. Only I knew what the old black radio stand contained.

(I see now it’s 10-1 in the bottom of the 9th, Cubs fans, and Derrek Lee just hit a double with no outs. THERE’S STILL A CHANCE!!!!!)

Sorry, I got sidetracked, thinking, dumbass Cubs fan that I am, there could possibly still be a chance we make it to the World Series.

Anyhoo … (go Aramis, we got no outs!) … Grandpa opens the old stand (Aramis advances to third, and we’ve got a man on first as well. DeRosa’s up to bat with no outs. Strike one. Pie’s on deck. DeRosa hits one off the third-base line and it’s called foul. Wow. My hat’s inside out.)

(One and two’s the count on DeRosa. Ramirez steals second. It’s two and two. The fans are chanting “Let’s go Cubbies.” It’s a double. Two men score for us. It’s now 10 to 3, still no outs with a runner at second. High fives all around.)

(The Dodgers coach is headed to the field.)

So, Grandpa opens the stand and pulls out a big stack of bubblegum cards. He slowly undoes the brittle rubber band with hands taken over by arthritis.

(The ESPN commentators are calling this game “officially over.” Cub fans, apparently, they’re not. Assholes.)

Grandpa removes the top card. Milt Pappas. He complains about the length of Pappas’ hair. And, look at those sideburns. A travesty. The next one looks like a playing card. It’s not your traditional Topps baseball card. One side of it has a blue design like those poker cards, and the other side has a mug shot of Ron Santo in the middle, a number in each corner, and bold text saying, “Pop Out.”

Well, Grandpa looks at the card. (Pie walks and now we have men on first and third. Soto comes up, and there’s a conference of homosexuals on the mound. Ball one to the Cubs’ catcher. Still no outs. I need to get another beer.)

(Fukudome is up with one out, and the count’s oh and one. Men on first and third. One ball and one strike. Strike two. Outside corner – looked like a frickin’ ball to me. Two and two. Look at that pitcher’s sideburns. Third strike. Fukudome must’ve been wooed by the burns. We’re down to our last out and Ward is stepping in to bat. Lord, help us. Two and oh to Ward. 4 errors this game. What the f**k?!! Two and one the count, and the Cubs fans are standing up again, of course. We have runners out there. Don’t strand ’em!! Full count. Oh my God, he’s got an earring in his ear. Just like a girl. Uh-oh. I’m channeling Grandpa B. again. They’re showing a female Cubs fan praying. Strike 3. That’s it. We suck, as expected. G!@#^&**%!!!!!!!!)

Grandpa turns the card over in his frail hands to look directly into the eyes of Santo. “Pop out,” he says. “That’s right. That’s all he’s ever good for. He couldn’t hit the ground with his hat.” He’s not angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. He’s just stating a fact.

“Here,” he says, handing the card to me. “You can have him. He’s worth nothing to me.”

He’s worth a lot to me. Now.

Julie
12:03 a.m.
10/3/08