Thursday, November 3, 2016


Hell of a thing, towards the end of a year that has tried our souls. Days before an election that isn't really going to end even after the polls close, now we have this, this poem. The David Ross part of it alone...just one of half a dozen subplots in this year's postseason that a network executive would have sent back for rewrites because it's too on the nose.

Roger Angell finally saw a Cub championship. Three out of my four grandparents were born and died without seeing that. The other, my dad's dad, was a year old in 1908. He was also an A's fan, which is probably what killed him at age 46. ("'Probably'?" - Cameron.) Wherever he is, he gets it.

I thought the pool would never see it! I feel like we've been making these jokes since the very first year, that you can bet your heart (the Cubs) or you can bet to win, that I hated seeing a bunch of Cubbeenie picks because it meant half the pool got knocked out by the LCS. Not this time. Not anymore.

So, Cubs fans, from a Met fan minted in 1985 and schooled in the Met-history catechism, that our first crown in 1969 came with a big assist from y'all (and a brunet feline), who remembers the Dawson Cubs and the Manny Cubs and wishes Mr. Banks had stayed just a little bit longer so he could have shared it with you guys: call in sick, dump all those books about the curse on, and enjoy it. 

And welcome back to the ranks of rooting neuroses NOT tinged with history. You're just like the rest of us now. 

(Indians fans, my condolences. This team will never really get its due -- see also: 1919 Reds, Cincinnati -- but you guys were great and I'd have loved to see you win too. And if ownership/management's casting about for something to blame, I'd strongly suggest the name and mascot, and get rid of it, yesterday.)

"Buntsy. Come on man. Where's the money." I'm right on top of that, Roses, just got some day-job/life stuff to check off. Stand by. 

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