The Sandberg Game and the '84 Cubs: Thirty Years of Hope, Heartbreak, and Hanging On

Thirty years. Where does the time go? It feels like just yesterday I was a wide-eyed college kid, perched in front of the TV, watching what would become one of the most iconic games in Cubs history – The Sandberg Game. June 23, 1984. Even the date sounds magical.

That whole summer, I was hooked. Every game, every inning on WGN, felt like it was leading somewhere special. The Cubs were good—actually good—and for the first time in my memory, "This Year" didn’t feel like desperate hope. It felt like destiny knocking.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Another Cubs fan reliving the past? Haven’t they learned anything? And you wouldn't be wrong. Being a Cubs fan requires a deep, almost irrational obsession with the ghosts of seasons past. It’s passed down, generation to generation, right alongside the eternal mantra: “Wait ‘til next year.” We're optimists, dammit. Even when we know better.

But this game… this game was different. This wasn’t heartbreak in disguise. This was magic. And Sandberg’s heroics only fueled the fire of belief in every Cubs fan’s chest.

The Cardinals were in town that sweltering Saturday afternoon—June heat thick as molasses, the kind that makes Wrigley’s ivy wilt. NBC’s Game of the Week. National audience. The Cubs trailed 9–8 in the bottom of the ninth. They had clawed back into the game after Cubs starter Steve Trout had an uncharacteristically short outing (1⅓ innings, 7 earned runs). But down by one in the bottom of the 9th inning, with former Cub Bruce Sutter—the Bruce Sutter, "Engine 42," armed with that devastating split-finger fastball—on the mound for St. Louis—everything about it screamed “typical Cubs loss.”

Then Ryne Sandberg stepped into the box.

CRACK!

That sound—you know the one. The sound that makes 36,000 fans rise as one. The ball sailing high over the left-center-field ivy. Game tied. 9–9. Pandemonium at Clark and Addison.

But we weren’t done.

Tenth inning. Cubs down 11–9. Sutter is still on the mound. And there’s Sandberg again—cool as a lake-effect breeze—digging in.

CRACK!

Lightning struck twice. Another bomb to left-center. Another eruption from the Bleacher Bums. Bob Costas’s voice cracking with disbelief: “Do you believe it! It's gone!” Even the Cardinals looked stunned—frozen in place as the impossible unfolded before them.

It wasn’t just that he tied the game. It was how he did it. Against Sutter. In a clutch moment. This was the Cubs flipping the script, writing themselves as heroes instead of goats. Sandberg single-handedly (with help from a Dave Owen RBI single in the bottom of the eleventh) inoculated an entire fanbase with an unwavering (and, yes, probably irrational) belief in the impossible.

And that belief carried us through the summer.

September 24, 1984 – Wrigley Field. Cubs vs. Pirates. Rick Sutcliffe on the mound, that magnificent beard flowing in the breeze. When he struck out Joe Orsulak to clinch the NL East, the roar in Chicago could be heard for blocks. Grown men wept. Strangers hugged. For the first time since 1945, the Cubs were heading to the playoffs.

"This Year" had finally arrived.

Then came October.

That fall, I had started school at San Diego State. When the Cubs and Padres met in the NLCS, and the Cubs took Games 1 and 2 at Wrigley Field, that Sandberg-forged optimism morphed into full-blown euphoria. Dreams of a rematch of the 1945 World Series vs. Detroit had to wait—we had destiny to finish.

A college buddy—a lifelong Padres fan who had already thrown in the towel—sold me his tickets at a markup that would make a Ticketmaster exec blush. I didn’t care. I was going to see the Cubs punch their ticket to the World Series.

Games 3 and 4? Not quite the fairy tale. The Cubs lost both at Jack Murphy Stadium. The familiar knot returned—that sinking feeling every Cubs fan knows too well. But still, I believed. This team is different, I told myself. One more game. One more chance.

Then came Game 5.

Cubs up 3–2 in the bottom of the seventh. A routine ground ball rolled to first base. And then… Leon Durham. The ball went right through his legs.

Right. Through. His. Legs.

A little piece of my soul died right there in Jack Murphy Stadium. I watched our World Series dreams trickle between Durham’s glove like sand through fingers.

Then, the Padres took the lead on Tony Gwynn's double. Of course, they always do when you’re a Cubs fan. I lingered in disbelief after the game. I’d gone from watching history to watching heartbreak—live and in person.

And yet… even as the Padres danced on our dreams, even as I sat in stunned silence in that stadium, a little voice whispered: Just wait ‘til next year.
Thanks, Ryno. Thanks, Leon. (Well… maybe not you, Leon.)

Of course, 1984 ended in heartbreak. (Spoiler alert: so did a lot of years after that.) But for one afternoon—for those few hours watching Sandberg rise above it all—I dared to dream. I believed that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t cursed after all.

The Sandberg Game wasn’t just about two clutch home runs. It was about something bigger: the power of hope. The unshakable loyalty of Cubs fans. The ability of baseball to create moments that transcend the game.

It reminded me that even in the midst of decades-long droughts, there can be moments of joy so pure that they stay with you forever. Moments I can relive again and again, and feel that same surge of hope—even 30 years later (even as we are fifth in the NL Central and 12 games under .500...).

So thank you, Ryne Sandberg. Thank you for the memory of a game that still makes me smile. Still makes me believe. Still makes me say: Hey, maybe this year…

Saying Goodbye...

I hope you’ll forgive a detour from my usual posts. Today, I need to write about someone who was my faithful hiking companion, who loved to chase a tennis ball with unrelenting enthusiasm, who was always by my side during quiet nights, who greeted me at the door with joy, and who taught the kids, and me, more about unconditional love than most people ever will. This is a memorial for Madison—Maddie to us—our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever.

The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish—especially around men—which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.

She warmed up to us quickly—especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.

A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home—a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now—he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.

This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.

Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.

That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together—quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.

When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.

The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.

It was time.

In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was—what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.

Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home—and in our lives—feels enormous now that she’s gone.

I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie—run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.

One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.

Rest well, girl. You were so deeply loved.

Maddie and the kids, Christmas 2011