The 2009 Cubs: Wake Me in October--Late, Late October

The 2009 baseball season is officially under way, and I, for one, couldn’t care less. You see, I’m a recovering Cubs fan.

These are actually heady times for Cubs fans—back-to-back playoff appearances, four or five overall this decade alone. The last time Cubs fans talked about that kind of postseason consistency was about the last time there was no corruption in Illinois government; roughly, never.

But many in Cub Nation are licking their chops at the prospect of a third straight division crown and another shot at fall glory.

Not me.

What was it George W. Bush said? “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, and you can’t get fooled again”? Whatever it was, I’ve been fooled way too many times as a fan of the boys in blue. I was born just three years after the Wreck of the Old ’69, so I never had to deal with that firsthand. I remember the Cubs teams of the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s that featured players who were barely qualified to walk upright, let alone play pro baseball.

And then 1984 came. It was a magical year, a magical year. They got Rick Sutcliffe in June, and he proceeded to mow down the National League on his way to a 16-1 record and a Cy Young Award. A kid named Ryne Sandberg burst onto the national scene with an “oh-no-he dih-n’t” 2-home run performance against Bruce Sutter and the hated Cardinals on national TV, back when being on national TV meant people actually watched. That game won him the MVP award that season. You had Dernier and Moreland, Jo-dy-Jo-dy-Jo-dy Davis, Durham and Sarge Matthews, the wily vets Larry Bowa and the Penguin, Ron Cey, as well as future Hall of Fame closer Lee Smith. They clinched in early September—the 9th, if my memory serves me correctly. It was a Wednesday night, I think, because I came home just in time from a church thing to see Sutcliffe strike out the final Pirate of a complete game. I remember watching Jim Frey and the rest of the team charge out of the dugout in wild celebration. There were more Cubs fans than Pirates fans in the old Three Rivers Stadium that night, and several of them held up a long banner that read “39 YEARS OF SUFFERING IS ENOUGH!”, which was a reference to the Cubs’ last postseason appearance in 1945. It seemed like an eternity for a 12-year old boy to wait between the clincher and the playoffs.

The Cubs didn’t have lights at Wrigley back then, so I remember running home from the bus stop to catch the end of the first two games on TV. We had been listening on portable radios in school, but it was worth the sprint home to see the red, white and blue bunting on the brick walls at Wrigley on a day other than the opener. And, of course, the Cubs walloped the Padres 13-0 in the opener, and won the second game of the best-of-five series as well. One more win in three games in San Diego, and the Cubs would have been in the World Series for the first time in a generation. I won’t recount what happened, but suffice it to say, if I ever meet Steve Garvey in person—I don’t care if he’s 80—I’m going to kick him in the nuts. (Of course, I might not be the only one waiting in line to do that). I watched game 5 with my best friend Dave at his house, and we were crushed. Twelve year old boys aren’t supposed to cry, certainly not in front of each other. But we bawled like, well, like girls.

Fast forward a few years past the 1989 and 1998 teams to 2003. I had officially entered the category of “long suffering” Cubs fan, having passed my thirtieth birthday without so much as a first-round National League playoff series win. Everything came together that year. A mature Wood and a young kid named Mark Prior were blowing batters away. Sammy Sosa was hitting balls that would have gotten out of Denali National Park. Dusty Baker, a champion player and renowned manager was at the helm. The Cubs blew by the first round playoff opponent so easily, I don’t even remember who it was. And they earned a 3-1 NLCS series lead against the Marlins, which came from a state that didn’t have professional baseball until ten minutes before September of that year. The Cubs were cruising along behind Prior, just five outs away from the first Chicago World Series since 1959, and the first for the Cubs in 58 years. Then, somebody popped a ball along the Wrigley Field foul line that drifted over the stands and back toward left field. Moises Alou thought he should have been able to catch it, were it not for a fan’s mitt getting in the way—threw his glove down like a child not getting his way. He might’ve been able to catch that ball, but it was not likely. The fan took a lot of heat, mostly because of Alou’s reaction. If Alou just trots back to left field, nobody ever knows who Steve Bartman is. I didn’t blame Bartman at the time and still don’t. But right then, I knew it was over.

The Cubs had a chance to get out of it with limited damage, but the normally reliable Latino-shortstop-du-jour booted a tailor-made double play ground ball and the Marlins came back to win. The Cubs still had a 3-2 series lead, with Kerry Wood set to pitch one more time. But I knew it was over. Predictably, they lost the final two games and Wrigleyville became a Necropolis. After the game 7 loss, I felt just like I did when I was 12, minus the tears. Men don’t cry, you know, and even if they did, we had since learned that there is no crying in baseball.

Fast forward again, past Prior’s spectacular flame-out and Sosa’s unceremonious departure from town, to 2007. The Cubs had a good team, one that could have won the NL pennant. They got swept by the Diamondbacks in the first round of the playoffs. I was pretty upset, but I knew they’d learn from that series, that they’d be bringing back some very good players and that 2008—the 100-year anniversary of the Cubs’ last World Series victory—was destined to be the year.

They had a great season again, ending up with the best record in the National League and a healthy Kerry Wood dominating at closer. Everyone was predicting a cakewalk to a World Series title. But, impossibly (yet inevitably), for the second consecutive year, they got swept by an NL West team, the Dodgers, in the first round of the playoffs. You could tell from the first pitch of that series that they were going to lose, if not get swept again.

That’s when I got off the bandwagon. I was going to burn my Cubs hat in a symbolic divorce from the team, but for some reason decided against it. But I’m done. I am no longer a Cubs fan. I don’t care about the upcoming season. I don’t care that they signed so-and-so, that so-and-so looks so much better this year, that so-and-so is poised for a breakout season. I just don’t care. I’m not going to get emotionally invested in a team that I know is going to punch me in the stomach again. I just can’t do it. 2003 was gut-wrenching, but 2008 ended with more of a somber finality. It was like watching a beloved grandparent who had been painfully, terminally ill finally slip away. There was sadness, but mostly relief that the suffering was over. You could peacefully say goodbye.

And that’s what I’ve done with the Cubs. I’ve said goodbye. I’ve let them peacefully slip away. I don’t wish them ill will like I do the White Sox or Cardinals (or Padres, for that matter). I don’t hate them. I hope they do well, I really do. But they’ll have to do it without me. I won’t be rooting for anyone else—that’d be silly and icky, like somebody moving to another city and suddenly becoming a big fan of his or her new hometown’s team, one that just “happens” to contend every year and win on occasion. The only way I’d become interested again is if it’s game four of the NLCS (I don’t care if the Cubs win the Series, just like Pop Fisher only wanted Roy Hobbs to get him a NL pennant in The Natural) and the Cubs have a 3-0 series lead, a 10-0 lead in the ninth inning and the other team down to its final out with no one on base. But I know they’ll never be that assured of victory, and so, I won’t be back. Many baseball experts and casual fans alike are again predicting them to win the NL this year, but I know better.

After all, fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, and you can’t get fooled again.