Is There Anything Worse Than Being A Cubs Fan?

Now that football is over and thoughts turn to baseball, “the inevitable” is a couple of months away from beginning all over again. I’m so used to it.

Kermit the Frog says, “It isn’t easy being green.” Guess what Kermit? It’s no walk in the park being a Cubs fan either. Anyone who knows baseball knows that. And even worse, many “real” baseball fans look down their baseball noses at us. They think we don’t know much about the game. I suppose their logic isn’t completely without merit: After all, if we did know much about baseball, why would we be Cubs fans in the first place?

I grew up in the Calumet Region of northwest Indiana. Region Rats are generally either fans of the White Sox or the Cubs. Never both. Unfortunately, I was born a Cubs fan.

I’ve thought a lot about this self-inflicted heartache my whole life. Why do we put ourselves through this every year? Optimism? Denial? Both? It’s the same routine every spring: Maybe this will be the year. Sometimes, we come right out and tell ourselves: This WILL be the year!

Why do we think “this year” will be any different than all the other years? To most fans, “magic number” refers to the combination of their team’s wins and the second place team’s losses needed to clinch the division. Our magic number is usually a combination of Cubs losses and other teams’ wins that will eliminate the Cubs from the post-season. Again.

Not only is a Cubs fan’s life filled with disappointment and heartbreak, every once in awhile in can get downright cruel. Case in point:

My favorite Cubs team of all time was the 1969 edition. Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks had moved from shortstop to first base. Glenn Beckert (who seldom struck out) was at second, Don Kessinger at short, with the late, lovable Ron Santo at third. Sweet Swingin’ Billy (Williams) from Whistler was in left, and a pretty good catcher by the name of Randy Hundley was behind the plate.

We had some pretty good pitchers too, including Canadian Ferguson Jenkins (now in the Hall of Fame) and Ken Holtzman, who threw a no-hitter that year. (Although it took the Lake Michigan wind pushing a Hank Aaron homerun back into the field of play to make it happen.) Ironically, Holztman’s effort was the only no-hitter in the history of baseball with no strike-outs. Go figure.


The Cubbies were managed by the irascible Leo Durocher in those days. Leo the Lip was nearing the end of a successful career and was a bit long    in the tooth by 1969. How could anyone not love Leo? You never knew what was going to come out of his mouth when someone stuck a microphone in his face. Among my favorite Leo quotes:

I believe in rules. Sure I do. If there weren’t any rules, how could you break them?

I never did say that you can’t be a nice guy and win. I said that if I was playing third base and my mother rounded third with the winning run, I’d trip her.

Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand.

Buy a steak for a player on another club after the game, but don’t even speak to him on the field. Get out there and beat him to death.

Anyway, the day after the Holztman no-hitter, the Cubs had their largest lead of the season: 8 1/2 games up on the Cardinals, 9 1/2 ahead of the Mets. Surely, this was FINALLY the year. Unfortunately, 1969 was also the year of Gil Hodges’ Amazing Mets. During a collapse for the ages, the Cubs lost 17 of their last 25 games while the Mets won 38 of 49 and went on to beat the Baltimore Orioles in the World Series.

Some blamed the epic collapse on the Curse of the Billy Goat, which was allegedly placed on the Cubs in 1945. Billy Goat Tavern owner Billy Sianis was asked to leave a World Series game at Wrigley Field between the Cubs and the Tigers because the odor of his pet goat was bothering other fans. Sianis became outraged and declared: “Them Cubs…they aren’t gonna win no more!” The Cubs were up 2 games to one at that point but went on to lose the World Series to the Tigers. Of course they did.

Then there was the infamous black cat incident that many Cubs fans believe was the beginning of the end of the 1969 season. During the first inning of a crucial game with the Mets at Shea Stadium, a black cat walked across the field right in front of the Cubs dugout, past Ron Santo, who was waiting on deck. The Mets won the game, took the division lead the next day, and the rest is history.

Not only would the 2003 Cubs remind me of who was in charge of my baseball emotions, they would do it in spectacular fashion. The Cubs were playing the Florida Marlins at Wrigley in game 6 of the National League Championship Series. They held a 3 games to 2 lead in the seven game series, and were up 3-0 in the eighth inning. They were five outs away from a  trip to the World Series.

Marlins second baseman Luis Castillo was at the plate. He hit a popup foul down the third baseline. As Cubs outfielder Moises Alou neared the wall to make the catch, the now-infamous Steve Bartman reached out and touched the ball. Alou didn’t make the catch. The Cubs went on to lose game. They also lost game seven and the Marlins went on to beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. 1969 revisited. Only this time, we were strung along until the very end.

My son Andrew was 11 years old at the time. He was not only a very good baseball player, he was a fourth-generation die-hard Cubs fan as well. The morning after the Bartman Incident, I came downstairs to find him sitting at the kitchen counter, staring wistfully out the window. “You know what dad,” he said, “I’ll probably die before the Cubs win the World Series, won’t I?” I thought for a minute and replied, “You know…I was about your age when I started thinking that too.”

We laughed on the outside, but we hurt on the inside. I’m sure we’ll share more than a few of those laughs along the way…probably beginning this fall.


I Get to be a Packer Fan Again Sunday

I got Bart Starr’s autograph without even knowing it was him

When I was young, my parents owned a resort in northern Wisconsin. Miller’s Hidden Haven on Lost Land Lake. Always liked the way that sounded. I’ll never forget riding around the resort with my dad in his red GMC pickup truck. Like all little boys, I loved riding in the back. We’d just ride around and “fix things” as I recall. Those were wonderful times that will stay with me forever.

The locals call northern Wisconsin God’s country. Our resort was on a heavily wooded point on the lake. It truly was God’s country. My best friend, Michael Brandt lived a couple of miles away at Lost Land Lake Lodge. When we wanted to hang out, we’d jump in our boats and meet up somewhere on the lake. Mine had a 7.5 horsepower blue and gray Evinrude. I loved that boat. I was in second grade when I started running around the lake by myself. Seems odd now.

When fall arrived each year, it was time to close down the resort and make the long drive back to Dyer, Indiana for the winter. One year as we were getting ready to leave, my dad announced with a great deal of excitement that we would be taking a side-trip to Green Bay. He was a huge Packer fan, and of course, he made the natural assumption that I was one as well. While that was true, I really wasn’t into football back then as much as he was.

When we got to Green Bay, we drove straight to Lambeau Field, home of the Packers. The team was working out on a practice field adjacent to the stadium. In those days, fans could walk right up to the players when practice was over. My dad could barely contain his exuberance as he handed me a pen and pad of paper. “Go get some autographs,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

With more than a little trepidation, I walked up to a  group of Packers. I was a small skinny boy and these guys looked like they were at least eight feet tall. I asked the biggest one for his autograph. (assuming he must be the best player since he was the biggest player.) He got down on one knee and smiled as he signed my pad. “I’d be happy to give it to you,” said Steve Wright, (a so-so player who’s name I’ve remembered all these years) “but why don’t you ask   that guy over there for HIS autograph?

I walked up to “that guy over there,” and asked him to sign my pad. He leaned over and said, “Sure I will,” as he reached for my pen. After he gave it back to me, I thanked him and ran back to show my dad all two of my autographs. He could barely contain himself as he read the second name out loud: “Bart Starr!” He was beaming. My dad was the happiest “boy” on the field that day.

I’m a Colts fan these days, but whenever I get the opportunity, I root for the Green Bay Packers. I remember sitting with my dad in front of the television all those Sundays and watching our team. Those images will never leave me.

My dad’s gone now, but come this Sunday, I’ll be thinking about that day long ago, when I got Bart Starr’s autograph for him. I’ll be cheering for both of us.

Every Once In Awhile, Even I Can Be Wrong

Sometimes; way wrong

Let me start off by admitting right up front that I’m a big-time American Idol fan. Yep, I’ve watched all nine seasons. With the exception of Ruben Studdard, Fastasia, and Taylor Hicks winning, I’ve been entertained by most of “what’s been goin’ down,” as Randy likes to say.

That brings us to Season 10. I couldn’t imagine Idol without Simon Cowell. After all, Simon WAS Idol. When it was finally announced that he was leaving the show, I hardly had the desire to go on living. Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch, but I was disappointed. I always felt like Simon and I were kindred souls in a way. Simon can be a curmudgeonly bastard, but underneath that steely veneer is a sensitive fellow with a heart as big as J Lo’s butt. He can be the most generous guy on the planet, but most of the time, it’s all about Simon.

Anyway, as rumors ran rampant throughout the off-season and the names of various replacements were bandied about, I didn’t like any of them. When I ultimately learned that Steven Tyler was officially signed to replace Simon, I couldn’t believe it. Hell, at the time, I would’ve even preferred Elton John.

The DEMON OF SCREAMIN’? ARE YOU SERIOUS? (In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not much of an Aerosmith fan.) There was no way this “womanizing substance-abusing wild man” was gonna fill Simon’s shoes.

I WAS WRONG. Not only was I wrong, I was wrong BIG TIME. Tyler brings much-needed freshness to Idol. His craziness and self-deprecating humor make the show fun again. There’s a new chemistry between the judges, mostly due to Tyler’s easy-going manner.

Last Thursday, the final contestant was 26-year old Chris Medina. He stood before the judges and nailed a soulful rendition of The Script’s “Breakeven.” In 2009, two months before he was to be married, Medina’s fiance, Juliana Ramos was in a devastating car accident that left her in a wheelchair with serious brain damage.

At the judges’ request, Medina wheeled Juliana into the room following his audition. Steven, J Lo and Randy got up from behind the table and walked     over to greet her. (The judges later said they had no idea as to the extent of her injuries.)

The Demon of Screamin’ was teary-eyed as he gently hugged and kissed Ramos on the forehead. “I just heard your fiance sing, and he sings so good,” Steven said softly as he knelt beside her wheelchair. “You know, ’cause he sings to you all the time.”

I’m still not much of an Aerosmith fan, but I’ve sure changed my mind about Steven Tyler.

If You Hang Around Long Enough, Nothing Will Surprise You Anymore

From hell freezing over to flying pigs

I decided to write flying pigs for several of reasons. We live in a pretty crazy world these days and no matter how hard I try, it’s very difficult for me to keep my big mouth shut when something gets my attention. Don’t misunderstand me, not all of the insanity is bad, mind you. Much of the nonsense going on out there is hilarious. Even better, the really hysterical stuff isn’t supposed to be funny at all. That’s what makes it so entertaining.

Anyway, flying pigs gives me the ability to make snarky comments and pass judgement as I see fit. I don’t miss many opportunities to second-guess, play Monday morning quarterback, or say “I told you so.” Life is good.


Sometimes I’ll just pass along odd stories, like the one about the 19-year old kid who built a death-ray that actually works. Aside from the fact that he managed to put this thing together in the first place, what do you suppose was going on in his head that made him want to do it? Having been a creative lad myself, (who chased around ants with a magnifying glass) I also wonder what sorts of things he’s zapped with it that he isn’t telling us about. One can only imagine.


And how about Allstate’s research, which suggests that people’s driving habits could be related to their astrological signs? I’m serious. According to Allstate, Scorpios are only involved in 1.5% of accidents while Virgos are 700% more likely to get in wrecks. Does this mean that we should now begin asking cab drivers, truckers, bus drivers and pilots, “What’s your sign?”

C’mon back. There’s plenty of ridiculous stuff out there to talk about.