“Do they still play the blues in Chicago / When baseball season rolls around? / When the snow melts away / Do the Cubbies still play / In 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.”
—“A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request,” Steve Goodman
I have a lot to look forward to next week. Obviously, it is spring break, so myself and three of the most beautiful Cardinal ladies the world has ever seen will be piling into my Honda CRV and road tripping through the South. Additionally, I get to spend Easter Sunday with my family and a minimum of seven chocolate bunnies—no complaints there. Still, neither of these events are what have me beaming from ear to ear. What does have me beaming is Thursday, April 5: the date of the Chicago Cubs’ home opener. (Please save all heckling and tomato throwing until the end of this column. Thank you).
Yes, I am one of the cursed, destined to root for a team that—and it pains me to say this—probably will not win next year. Regardless, I love my Cubbies more than words can say, but this is a column, after all, so I will give it whirl.
As a native Illinoisan, I have received my fair share of flack since arriving on the UW-Madison campus. I try to let people’s FIB slurs roll off my back, chalking them up to either stupidity or jealousy. That being said, the gun I stick to—and loudly—is my loyalty to the Cubs.
Really, I never stood a chance at a more championship-ring filled life. You see that chubby nugget in the photo up there? Well, a man by the name of John, her father, had her sitting in the green seats of Wrigley Field before she could read. While most little girls were going gaga for Taylor Hanson, she had her eyes on Sammy Sosa (Yes, I know, and no, I do not want to talk about it). One of her earliest memories is sitting along the first base line watching a foul ball graze just over the fingers of her desperately reaching uncle. Poor kid.
Seventeen years later, I have mastered my ABCs, but I am that same naïve, unabashedly loyal Cubs fan. My pride is on especially noticeable display in Wisconsin. While some may clam up amongst the competition, I get louder. Drunk or sober, it is not uncommon for me to give high fives to passersby in Cubs gear. I do not care if you are a stranger. I do not care if you are Edward Scissorhands. Wearing Cubbie blue earns anyone a high five.
I have also found myself in my fair share of arguments about the merits of Cubs fandom. I could go on and on about how we are a special breed, a group of people who value camaraderie, loyalty and the love of the game more than they do the postseason. I find that argument gets me nowhere in this state, mostly because no people other than Cubs fans can understand, and that is fine.
Here is the thing: No one rails on Cubs fans harder than Cubs fans rail on themselves. The whole of Brewers Nation and those of other lesser fandoms can heckle me until they are blue in the face, but do you honestly think I do not see how masochistic it is to root for the perpetual losers? Yes, there is little logic to my team spirit, but since when have Americans valued logic? Congressmen are fighting against fully-covered birth control because they believe it will cause a surge in sluttiness, and the majority of Americans subscribe to a religion based on an impregnated virgin. To each their own, but if we are going to leave logic out of our politics and religion, we may as well leave it out of our favorite pastime, too.
Don’t get me wrong: I want the Cubs to win the World Series more than anything, and few things upset me more than the fact that Ron Santo never got to see it happen. Still, come April 5, my crusade as a tireless Cubs fan will continue on. History tells me this season will be trying, but hey, they do not sell beer at the ballpark for nothing. Go Cubs go!
