Keeping Score: A Legacy Written in Box Scores

July 2016 Cubs Scorecard

I found it while packing up my office, preparing for my move to Boise—a dusty file folder tucked behind a stack of old software manuals and holiday cards. Inside was a scorecard from July 20, 2016, Cubs versus Mets at Wrigley Field. Five years to the day from when I'm writing this, and the pencil marks have faded some, but I can still make out the neat columns and careful notations that chronicle nine innings of Cubs baseball for my daughter Kailey and me during our cross-country road trip. It's more than just a souvenir; it's a thread that connects three generations of my family, linking back to a lesson my father taught me on a cool early fall evening in Pittsburgh more than forty years ago.

I was nine years old in 1974 when my family moved to Pittsburgh. My father, a Yankees fan from New York who had married into a Cubs family from Chicago, knew how much I loved my mother's team. Despite his own allegiances, he promised to take me to see the Cubs play the Pirates at Three Rivers Stadium that fall. It would be my first professional baseball game.

That day stuck with me—not just because it was my first, but because I kept score. And now, decades later, I can revisit it with uncanny clarity, thanks to a relic of the internet age: the game's box score, preserved online like some sacred archaeological tablet.

September 30, 1974. Bill Bonham pitched a complete game, but the Cubs could only muster one run—Billy Williams scoring on a bases-loaded walk to Pete LaCock in the first inning. That was it offensively for the Cubs. Bruce Kison and the Pirates held on for a 2–1 win.

I had every play neatly recorded in pencil on that crisp scorecard in my lap. That quiet thrill of charting a real ballgame, pitch by pitch, was something new entirely. It transformed the experience from spectator to storyteller. But I was still heartbroken at the loss.

Dad showed me the symbols—the elegant shorthand of baseball. He drew a mini version of the field and jotted the numbers down for each position. He explained how a strikeout was a backwards ꓘ if the batter was looking, how a 5-4-3 double play told a complete story in three numbers, how a home run was simply HR but somehow contained all the joy of watching a ball disappear into the stands. His patient explanations transformed what I thought was just watching into something deeper—active participation in preserving the game's narrative.

Then came the moment that would define not just that game, but our family's sports allegiances for decades to come. A Pirates fan sitting behind us struck up a conversation with my younger brother and me. When he offered to give us a foul ball—if he caught one—in exchange for switching our loyalty from the Cubs to the Pirates, my response was immediate: "No way." But my brother, perhaps seduced by the promise of an actual baseball, said "okay".

That single word changed everything. What started as a Cubs family suddenly became divided. My brother's newfound love for Pittsburgh sports—the Pirates, the Steelers, the Penguins—created a rivalry that continues to this day. While he embraced his adopted city's teams, I remained stubbornly loyal to Chicago, setting up decades of good-natured family warfare that adds spice to every sports conversation. That moment taught me something about loyalty and choice that I'd carry forward—that the traditions we embrace, we embrace deliberately, and they become part of who we are.

But the real gift my father gave me that day wasn't about team loyalty—in fact, he was quietly rooting for neither team, content to watch his Cubs-loving son discover the game's deeper rhythms. It was about attention and presence. Keeping score forced me to watch every pitch, every swing, every defensive play with intention. It taught me that baseball, like life, is made up of small moments that accumulate into something larger, and that paying attention to details creates memories that last. Looking back now, through the lens that only comes with time and distance, I understand that this wasn't just a baseball lesson—it was a masterclass in being present, in showing up, in the quiet ways that love is demonstrated through shared experience.

Decades passed. I married, had children, and found myself facing the same choice my father had made—whether to pass along this beautiful burden of Cubs fandom. Even as I embraced this ritual with my own children, I couldn't escape Mike Royko's famous warning Sins of the Fathers and the generations-long suffering we Cubs fans inflict upon our children. In his 1989 column, Royko pleaded with fathers not to pass along the disease of Cubs fandom, calling it worse than drug addiction. He warned against hooking innocent children on a lifetime of disappointment and heartbreak.

Despite his wisdom, despite knowing the pain that comes with loving a team that specializes in creative ways to break your heart, I couldn't help myself. Still, I carried that lesson forward. When I wasn't coaching my son's Little League teams, I was in the stands with my scorecard, chronicling his journey from tee-ball through high school and into college. Those scorecards became the record of his baseball career—not just the statistics, but the story. The strikeout that led to tears but also to determination. The diving catch in the gap at the Little League Western Region Complex. The clutch HR with two outs in Arcadia.

As I wrote back in 2009, during another year of Cubs disappointment, I knew I was passing along the same "optimistic pessimism" that had been inflicted upon me. I was the dad telling my children that tomorrow is a new day, that there's always next year, that this season—surely this season—would be different. Despite the decades of evidence to the contrary, despite the mathematical reality of Cubs history, I continued to believe. And worse, I taught my children to believe too.

Every box filled in was a moment preserved, a way of saying this mattered, you mattered, this game we shared mattered. The habit became so ingrained that I've purchased a program or scorecard and kept score at nearly every Cubs game I've attended since that first one in Pittsburgh. My children learned not just the symbols and abbreviations, but the ritual itself—the careful attention, the patient recording, the way that keeping score transforms you from passive observer to active participant in the game's unfolding story.

Which brings me back to that scorecard from July 20, 2016, when Kailey and I sat in the sweltering heat at Wrigley Field, watching Bartolo Colon face off against Kyle Hendricks during what would become the Cubs' championship season. Our seats were next to two Mets fans who had flown into Chicago that very day just to see Colon pitch. A friendly rivalry bloomed between us, scorecards in hand, each of us tracking every pitch, every run, every substitution. As the Cubs pulled ahead, our scorekeeping turned competitive, complete with light trash talk and shared laughs. wo Anthony Rizzo homeruns later, we left the ballpark grinning, ready to continue our trip westward, while our new Mets friends flew home to New York, slightly sunburned and disappointed. It was the kind of fleeting, scorecard-fueled camaraderie only baseball can conjure.

As I filled in each box that afternoon, I was struck by the perfect symmetry of the moment. Here I was, passing along my father's gift to my daughter, just as he had done with me four decades earlier.

But there was something different about that day, something that only became clear in retrospect. For the first time in my adult life, that eternal Cubs refrain of "wait 'til next year" actually came to pass. That 2016 season—the one chronicled in part on that faded scorecard—ended not in heartbreak but in celebration. The curse was broken. The suffering, at least that particular strain of it, was over.

I think about my father often, especially now that he's gone. I understand better what Kierkegaard meant about how we live life forward but understand it backward—those moments that seemed simple at the time were profound acts of love. He was teaching me not just about baseball, but about presence, about the importance of being fully engaged in the moments we share with the people we care about most.

The scorecard in my office now represents more than just that Cubs-Mets game or even our cross-country adventure. It's a tangible reminder of a chain of connection that runs from my father to me to my children—each of us learning that some things are worth preserving, that attention is a form of respect, and that the stories we keep are the ones that make us who we are.

My children are young adults now, and they've inherited more than just Cubs fandom from me. They've learned that baseball is a language of connection, that keeping score is really about keeping memories, and that sometimes the most profound gifts are the ones that look like simple pastimes. When they have children of their own, I suspect they'll find themselves at ballparks with scorecards and pencils, continuing a tradition that started with a patient father in Pittsburgh all those years ago.

The game ends, the crowd goes home, but the scorecard remains. A humble piece of paper transformed into family history, one box score at a time.

And for all of Mike Royko's warnings about the sins we visit upon our children, I can't help but think some sins are worth inheriting—especially when they come wrapped in the language of love, attention, and the enduring hope that this year might finally be the year.