It was a bright shining day in the life of a seven-year-old.
Bikes, toys, parks and lemonade.

But then I came into the house and approached the kitchen to
find my mother crying. “Why are you crying?” I asked.

“The Cubs lost.”

I stood astounded — why was my mother making such a big deal
about a baseball game? After all, the Cubs always lose. But, of
course, I was seven. And naive.

As it turned out, one “gentleman” by the name of Will Clark had
dashed the hopes of Chicago Cubs fans the world over by getting a
key hit in the 1989 National League Championship Series. The Cubs’
playoff run came to an end and with it the built-up hopes of a
nation of oppressed yet faithful people.

Since then, Clark has been as hated in Chicago as the Michigan
Wolverines are in Madison. He was booed consistently in the years
following the series.

In the life of a Cubs fan, “there’s always next year” is a
phrase we have come to learn and love as much as the hot dogs and
Old Style the vendors sell at Wrigley Field. The Cubs have been the
lovable losers. Not since 1908 have they won the World Series.
That’s 95 years.

Let me repeat: your grandparents probably weren’t born when the
Cubs last won it all. And the last time they actually appeared in a
World Series, those same grandparents (and many pro-baseball
players) were fighting the Axis powers in Europe and the South
Pacific. (No wonder they made it so far.) So the phrase “there’s
always next year” isn’t just something we use to console one
another — it’s the essence of being a Cubs fan.

Also, it’s all about Wrigley. For those readers who have never
been there, I genuinely feel sorry for you. It is a hallowed,
magical place. The scent of hot dogs, perfume from the hottie
sitting a row in front of you and various Budweiser products fills
the stands as Gary Pressy plays the organ and everyone sings the
traditional “Take me out to the ball game.” (Only when it gets to
that part about “if they don’t win it’s a shame” we sing “if they
don’t win it’s the same.”)

And, of course, Wrigley nearly always sells out. Especially for
Friday daytime games. Strange how Cubs games and “sick” excuses for
employees throughout Chicago always coincide. (I’d like to thank
past philosophy teachers for buying those excuses, by the way. I
had an extra Old Style just for you.) To put it into terms nearly
every Wisconsinite can understand: Lambeau is to football what
Wrigley is to baseball. Get it? Good — now go get some tickets, if
you can.

This is why I found myself crying Saturday evening, when the
Cubs clinched their own division for the first time since Bush (the
first, “prudent” one) was president. I literally bawled in nearly
the same way my mother had 14 years ago. Only this time, I didn’t
question it. This time they were tears of joy. The Cubs were going
to the playoffs, and there was one good shindig going down at
Wrigley.

And on this past Tuesday night, I nearly did it all over again.
The Cubs fought like David, an underdog with no history of winning
the big one, against the Goliath Atlanta Braves, who have won more
consecutive division championships than any other team in
professional sports.

With the help of strong hitting and pitching by Kerry Wood, the
Cubbies won on the road in Atlanta in the playoffs. That has never
happened. It’s like the cosmos are realigning, and the Cubs could
actually make it to the World Series. That hasn’t happened in my
parents’ lifetime, or mine … yet.

So, as I put off studying for this Saturday’s LSATs and that
nasty philosophy paper due next Monday, I will continue hoping that
this time the Cubs will pull it off. I will watch every pitch,
scream at every bad call and wear my ratty 10-year-old hat until
they win it all or blow it.

But, hey, there’s always next year.

Paul Temple ([email protected]) is a senior majoring
in political science and philosophy. He has a shrine to Ernie Banks
and Harry Caray.