But about this time each offseason, though, I get over it. NFL football has grown interminably boring to me, and offers no diversionary charm; and I cannot keep up with the college teams, BCS, bowls, etc. I've never been much of a fan of basketball, and I simply don't understand or care about most of the other things that pass for "sport" in the baseball offseason. And then there's the fact that unlike any other major sport, baseball in its dormant state offers an almost continual stream of at least vaguely pertinent news, from early November all the way to that happy day in mid-February when the pitchers and catchers report again to the spring training camps in Florida and Arizona. So I have been peripherally keeping up with all that; and then of course the Astros have been busy, signing FA slugger Carlos Lee and adding hometown boy Woody Williams and perhaps Jon Garland of the White Sox to the starting rotation to help replace Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte, who appear to be gone. And so on.
So anyway, I am becoming engaged again; but before heading off full tilt into 2007, this talk about the late charges the Astros have made toward the ends of the last few seasons reminds me of something I wrote awhile back to commemorate one of the Astros division rivals, the ridiculous Chicago Cubs; who haven't been to a World Series since FDR was running things, or won one since Woodrow Wilson was, who are known less for winning and more for their many late season collapses, their belief in silly curses, and their fans' propensity for showing up in droves to their "green cathedral" ballpark to watch the games, be seen, and get stupid drunk, year after year after year, whether the team out on the field is any good or not.
I wrote the following just after the end of the 2004 season, and it is highly topical. 2004 was the year after the most famous Cubs collapse of all when, up 3 games to 1 in a best-of-seven playoff series against Florida and with a huge late lead (at home) in game 5, the act of a fan maybe interfering with the flight of a foul ball that maybe the Cubs left fielder could have leapt up into the stands and caught but did not caused the curse-obsessed Cubs and their followers to fall instantly, completely apart. The Cubbies quickly blew the lead and lost game 5, and the next two games also, and the upstart Marlins went on to win the World Series against the mighty Yankees. Meanwhile the Cub fans considered lynching one of their own, the poor bastard who had supposedly caused it all to happen by reaching out for a souvenir at exactly the wrong time. They thought better of it in time, and instead they held a ceremony where (I am not kidding) they blew up the ball.
Anyway, 2004 was the season after the meltdown. The Cubs, obviously recovered from that horror and still with dominant starting pitching were again a solid playoff contender, and looked to be drafting the even-better St. Louis Cardinals to an easy wild card playoff berth in the NL Central. The Cubs coasted along like that for a month or so, and then around mid-August they casually glanced in the rear-view mirror to see just how far back the rest of the pack was. . . but what they actually saw was the Astros gearing up for another insane run.
That was one hell of a month-and-a-half, after that. Houston went 36-10 while the Cubs sputtered. There were a couple of awesome home-and-home series between the two clubs along the way, filled with beanballs and ejections and bitter accusations and generalized acrimony all around. In the end, Houston ran the Cubs down from behind, and then ran them over.
Damn, that was a fun month. Even though the Astros were later knocked out of the playoffs by St. Louis, I was still thinking about the thrilling beatdown of the Cubbies when I decided it really should be commemorated in verse.
My apologies to T.S. Eliot, by the way. On the other hand, Eliot was a St. Louis native, and for all I know a Cardinal fan in his youth, at least. If so, then I'd like to think he'd understand.
**********
The Love Song of John Q. Cubfan
Vous pouvez connerie le boulanger
Et obtenir les brioches
Que vous pouvez soutenir de chaque affaire
Excepté une
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a Cub fan drunk and passed out in his seat;
Let us go, through certain Wrigleyville streets,
The muttering retreats
Of idiots who believe they're cursed by goats
Who drink old fashioned beer that tastes like oats:
Streets that follow like a tedious interview
Of a whiny manager with a fucked-up world-view
That leads to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What the hell?"
Let us head for Wrigley on the El.
In the stands the vendors come and go
Selling their swill for six bucks a go.
The yellow journalists who just can't rant enough
The yellow piss that makes the hands so tough
Get mixed together on some lost afternoon
When Sammy the rightfielder, who is a buffoon
Hops around like a bunny at the sight of a long, lazy drive
And gets gunned down at second by four feet or five,
And sensing another sign of the gods' disdain
We order up another nasty brew to drain.
And indeed there will be time
For the wild card lead to disappear,
Onrushing giants and spacemen getting near;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare to face the nagging fear;
There will be time to whine and moan,
For the umpires to conspire, the announcers to berate
As after another loss we head for home;
Time for beanballs and ejections,
Time for the sunshine to wear out the whiteys,
And time for Steve Stone to call us un-mighty,
As pointless as a lonely, Viagra-fueled erection.
In the stands the vendors come and go
They sell that shit for six bucks, you know?
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "What the fuck?" and "What the fuck?"
Is it The Curse? Is it lousy luck?
Or just that our bullpen really sucks?
[They will say, "Your bullpen blows."]
Borowski's hurt, so the one we chose
LaTroy, to come in late and close
[They will say, "You cut off your face to spite your nose!"]
Do we dare
Take the Almighty's name in vain?
In a minute there is time
To curse a blue streak, and go down in flames.
For we have known them all, already, known them all: --
Have known the games pissed away by errors, wind-borne flies, blown saves,
We have measured out our lives by the games we gave away;
We have lost must-win games to chumps, and have been appalled.
From the second deck falls a chunk of concrete, about half a ton
Should I try and run under one?
And we have known the indignities, already, know them all --
Beat out by a team in McDonald’s uniforms back in ’84,
Or ’89 Will Clark went all Babe Ruth on us (“It’s gone! It’s gone!”)
And how could we forget Brant Brown (Brant Brown?!) dropping that fly ball?
What the hell is going on?
Cincinnati (Cincinnati?!) beats us three of four
Should I go and get a gun?
And we know how this ends, already; we must remember –
Confident in a solid lead held almost up to the end,
[“Oh, don’t be silly!” they say, as the inevitable descends]
How will it be this time? Like the ’69 Mets?
Another incredible mind-fuck we will never forget?
Our hopes as dead as the ivy in November.
Could I sneak a knife in, nice and neat
Commit Harry Caray right in my seat?
. . . . .
When Ruth stood pointing out to Waveland Ave., was he really calling his shot?
Or just showing us the way to the exits, saying,
“This thing’s all over, boys; why’n’t you just head on home?”
I should have been a ragged old glove
Scuttling across the floors of silent dugouts
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
As smoothed by several rounds
Asleep…tired…slowing down,
Stretched out on the bar next to my ratty blue cap with the “C”.
Should I, after another shot ‘n’ a beer
Have the strength to walk on out of here?
But though I have wept and fasted, blown up balls and genuflected,
Though I have longed to see Dusty’s head [the stupid toothpick in its mouth]
brought in upon a platter,
Truth is, I can’t do shit—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of our greatness flicker,
And I have seen the Base Ball Gods shake their heads, and snicker,
And in short, I’ve seen my own impotence reflected.
And was it all worth it, after all,
After elimination, the acrimony, the accusations,
Bitter doubt entering our conversations?
Was it worth raising the payroll to $100 million
Just to bring the types of players with the skills in
When one skill is not holding onto the fucking ball?
The skill to wear sunglasses and still not see,
The can of corn come wafting out,
While our pitcher grins on the mound with glee,
Saying, “I know you’ll catch that ball."
"I know you’ll catch that fucking ball!”
And was it all worth it, after all,
Worth all the money, care, and time spent,
Putting together a team which only wasted all its promise?
Which would rather initiate, and then retaliate, than win the game –
Rather kick a wall and get a knee sprain –
And get 15 days on the DL,
While the whole season goes to hell.
Was it worth it, all the discontent?
When, with our backs up against the wall,
Against the lowly Redlegs and the Braves,
They say, “You lost them all."
"You lost them all!”
. . . . .
No, we are not championship material, nor were meant to be,
We are lovable losers, lots of fun,
Someone to get well against, if you’ve been on a bad run,
Come to the ballpark, the ‘Taj Mahal’, and get drunk out in the sun.
We’ve got great starters, but our bullpen sucks,
Our offense has its moments, but is full of holes,
And just when you think they give a fuck,
They blow a lead and lose control,
And the whole damn season comes undone.
We can’t take it. . . we can’t take it. . .
When our Sammy starts to jake it,
Shall we keep our hopes alive? Shall we go into the breech?
We shall play the Reds at home, and watch their offense be unleashed.
I have heard the fat ladies singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing for me.
We have seen them at night wearing too-tight slacks
Stumbling out of the bars in Lincoln Park
Looking for their SUV's double-parked.
We have lingered in the dream world of fantasy
Sustained by our collective hysteria, and a whole lot of booze
'Til reality sets in, and we lose and lose
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