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 become the first professional baseball game that I remember.

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. Royko was kidding, but not really...

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.

The Year Finally Came

For as long as I can remember, being a Cubs fan was less about baseball and more about belief.

Not belief in winning—not really—but belief in the act of believing itself. The kind passed down by fathers and mothers and the grainy glow of a daytime WGN broadcast. I was born a Cubs fan, but my first memories of being a Cubs fan are from the 1970s, sitting cross-legged on my Granny's living room floor, watching Jack Brickhouse call day games from Wrigley Field. Hey-hey! The sun always seemed to shine a little brighter through those dusty windows, and for a few hours, the Cubs were everything. My mom, my grandparents—they all loved the Cubs. But it was my great-grandmother’s house where that love was sealed. That’s where I learned how to sit still for nine innings and how to hold onto hope even when the standings didn’t make any promises.

Cubs fandom wasn’t a hobby—it was a lineage. And it came with its fair share of heartbreak.

In 1984, I paid a lot of money for tickets to see the Cubs play in the National League Championship Series. They were up two games to none against San Diego—and then lost three in a row at Jack Murphy Stadium. I was there. I watched it slip away in real time. Five years later, in 1989, the Cubs were back in the NLCS—this time against the Giants. And after San Francisco won the series, I remember feeling something strange: guilt. Because when the Loma Prieta Earthquake hit just before the World Series, a small part of me wondered if it was a sign from God that the Cubs were supposed to win—that the world itself had tried to intervene.

But I kept watching. Always. Through the 1990s and early 2000s, WGN was still my summer companion, and Harry Caray's voice—raspy, joyful, half-in-the-bag by the seventh inning—was the soundtrack to my hope. "It might be... it could be... it is!" he’d shout, and for a few moments, you'd forget how many games back we were. Even in the losing seasons—and there were plenty—I’d find myself drifting back to that kid sitting on the floor at my great-grandmother’s house, watching day games and believing, simply because that’s what we did. We hoped. We waited. And Harry helped make that waiting feel like something close to joy.

Then came the Lou Piniella era, and for a little while, it felt like we were onto something real again. In 2007 and 2008, the Cubs looked like contenders—good ones. They won the division both years, the team was balanced, confident, and tough. I let myself believe, just a little more than usual. But then came the postseason, and with it, the gut punch. Swept out of the NLDS two years in a row—first by the Diamondbacks, then by the Dodgers. The hope I had carefully built was flattened. Not because we lost, but because of how we lost. Swiftly. Quietly. Like we didn’t belong there after all.

Then came 2003. The Bartman Ball. My son and I sat together and watched as the Cubs fell apart against the Marlins. It wasn’t just a loss—it felt like a family wound. I remember wondering, with real fear, if I was just another link in the chain—if generations of my family had lived and died without seeing the Cubs win it all, and if I was about to pass that legacy down to my own kids.

And yet—despite everything—I kept watching. I kept hoping.

The 2016 World Series itself was a gauntlet of emotion. The Cubs had finally made it—and after everything, that almost felt like enough. But of course, it wasn’t. Not now. Not when we were this close. Then came the Cleveland Indians, and a series that turned every inning into a cardiac event.

When the Cubs fell behind three games to one, it felt like fate had returned to finish the job. I told myself I’d seen this movie before. That maybe I should spare myself the heartbreak. But I couldn’t not watch. It was like waiting for a train wreck I couldn’t look away from—slow, inevitable, painful.

And then came Game 5 at Wrigley. Elimination night. Lester on the mound, the offense still tight, the crowd a knot of hope and fear. The Cubs scratched out a 3–2 win, barely holding off Cleveland, and you could feel the gears start to turn. Kris Bryant homered. David Ross caught the final out. It wasn’t dominance, but it was life. The kind of game that reminded you why we watch—because even in the darkest moments, there’s always a chance.

Then Game 6 in Cleveland. Arrieta was sharp, the bats came alive, and suddenly—suddenly—the Cubs looked like the team we’d watched dominate the regular season. Bryant went deep. Russell hit a grand slam. The Cubs scored early and often. It wasn’t close. A 9–3 win, the series tied, and all bets were off. They hadn’t just forced a Game 7—they’d swung the emotional pendulum completely. From dread to fire. From “here we go again” to “maybe this is the year.”

Somewhere deep down, I started to believe. Not with bravado. Not with certainty. But with that quiet, familiar flicker that’s carried Cubs fans through lifetimes.

So on November 2, 2016, when Game 7 of the World Series stretched into its tenth inning, it felt less like a baseball game and more like a reckoning. Rain had paused the world, the score was tied, and a century of ghosts seemed to lean in a little closer.

I watched that game from my living room, surrounded by people who weren’t nearly as emotionally invested in the Cubs as I was. They knew I cared—knew it mattered—but they didn’t feel it in their bones the way I did. Still, they watched with me, patiently riding the emotional roller coaster, quietly supportive while I paced, shouted, swore, and occasionally buried my face in my hands. I was alone in the depth of it, but I wasn’t alone—and somehow, that made the night feel even more intimate, more personal, like I was carrying the weight of generations all by myself in that room.

The highs and lows of that night were biblical. Fowler’s leadoff homer felt like a miracle. Baez going yard, Ross’s redemption. A 5–1 lead in the fifth. A 6–3 lead in the eighth. And then, suddenly, it started slipping.

Chapman came in—overworked, exhausted, human—and just like that, the ghosts showed up. Davis homered. The game was tied. The stadium in Cleveland thundered, and a familiar voice started whispering in my head: We blew it again.

It wasn’t a thought. It was a reflex. Nearly every ounce of my body was screaming that we’d seen this before, that we’d lived it before—Brant Brown, Bartman, black cats, Leon Durham, the curse of whoever you chose to blame. All of it suddenly alive again in the worst possible way.

But I didn’t turn away. I didn’t shut it off. I just sat there—tense, sick, silent—and kept watching. Somewhere beneath the dread, I still hoped. Not in a loud or defiant way. Just a flicker. A little pilot light that had never quite gone out, no matter how many times the wind had tried.

And then the rain came. And the Cubs gathered in the weight room. And something shifted. I don’t know if it was divine intervention or just resilience forged by a century of heartbreak—but when they came back out, they looked different. And then Zobrist. And then Montgomery. And then Bryant grinning as he fielded that final grounder, slipping ever so slightly on the throw—almost too perfectly Cubs—and Rizzo stuffing the ball into his back pocket like a secret he never wanted to let go.

The room erupted, but I just sat there. Not out of disbelief, but because I didn’t want the moment to move past me too quickly. After 108 years, I had learned how to wait.

The next morning, I found myself watching a 30-second Budweiser commercial that had somehow appeared overnight. It featured Harry Caray’s voice, layered over scenes from the night before—Bryant to Rizzo, the dogpile, the scoreboard, the roar. I watched it over and over again. Hearing Harry call the Cubs’ World Series victory nearly two decades after his passing—it broke something open in me. That voice was the soundtrack of my summers, of my childhood, of the long, slow decades of hope and heartbreak. And here he was again, calling it home, just like he always did.

That video was the connection I didn’t know I needed—to my past, to the generations before me, and to the version of myself who had waited so long for this. I could live inside those 30 seconds. And maybe I still do. The same way a song can pin you to a summer, or a smell can send you back to your childhood bedroom, that video takes me straight to that night. I remember how it felt. I remember how I knew—knew—that nothing in baseball would ever mean more than this.

I thought about Wrigley. About the bricks and ivy that had seen so much futility and hope and human comedy. About the way that ballpark holds onto memory like ivy clinging to stone. I thought about all the times I walked into that place and looked out at the field like it was a cathedral. Because for many of us, it was.

The Cubs didn’t just win a championship that night. They untied a knot that had lived in generations of stomachs. They let us feel joy not as an abstract idea or a stubborn hope, but as something real, tangible, earned. And in doing so, they reminded us why we believed in the first place—not because we thought they’d win, but because we knew what it meant to keep showing up anyway.

There are a million stories from that night, and they’re all true. Mine just happens to be one of them. But the magic of November 2, 2016, is that it belongs to all of us. Every fan who waited. Every parent who passed it down. Every kid who first heard, “Just wait ’til next year,” and somehow believed.

Well—next year came.

And it was everything we dreamed.

Trains, Presidents, and Baseball

A Cross-Country Road Trip with My Daughter

Earlier this month, Kailey and I packed up a rental Toyota Corolla and pointed it East—driving from La Crescenta, California, to Philadelphia, where she would begin medical school at Thomas Jefferson University. It was a practical trip on paper, but we planned to make use of the time to hit touristy things along the road. However, the trip soon became something more: a chance to share time, places, and stories with my oldest child in a way we hadn’t for years.

We set off under the California desert sun, bound not just for Philly, but for a series of mutual passions we’d charted together—natural wonders, national parks, presidential history, and baseball among them. First stop: the Grand Canyon. A classic detour. Entering the National Park, we were greeted by the sight of a family of Moose. We hurried to reach the South Rim of the canyon in time for the "Golden Hour," where I was able to snap a photo of her with the majestic vista of the canyon as the backdrop.  We continued our drive with the intent of seeing the Four Corners Monument, but we misjudged the distance and arrived too late to visit. We continued driving to our first overnight stop in Durango, Colorado, where I talked Kailey into indulging one of my more niche interests—the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Museum. She was a good sport, smiling as I nerded out over old locomotives and track gauges. She even asked a few questions, humoring me like I must have done with my own dad at some point.

The proprietors of the hotel we stayed at directed us on a scenic route through the high desert of the Colorado Plateau, driving through valleys flanked by Colorado's 14ers, we made our way to Salida for lunch beside the Arkansas River’s headwaters, at the Boathouse Cantina. As we enjoyed our lunch, we watched as tubers and a Black Labrador frolicked in the river's gentle rapids before making our way through Monarch Pass and over the Continental Divide, down the Front Range, and across the plains via Interstate 80 to Kansas for our second night on the road. The next morning, we detoured off of I-80 to Abilene. Here we really hit our stride—at the Eisenhower Presidential Library. This wasn’t just a dad stop. Kailey and I both have a deep respect for American presidents and the stories that shaped their legacies. We lingered over Ike’s leadership in WWII and the 1950s’ transformation of America, taking it all in like two history buffs on pilgrimage.

After a couple of hours at the library, we decided to push on to St. Louis. Arriving in the early evening, I bought us two tickets to ride the tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, where we caught a few innings of a Cardinals game far below. After a quick stop in the museum gift shop beneath the Arch, we rushed to our car to avoid a thunderstorm rolling in. As we crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, the heavens opened up with some of the heaviest rain and most intense thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. Slowly making our way, we realized we totally forgot about dinner.  Kailey found a Steak 'n Shake near our hotel outside Springfield, Illinois, and we enjoyed a meal of burgers and shakes before calling it a day.

The next morning, we made another joint stop: Abraham Lincoln’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery, the Lincoln Home Historic Site, and the Illinois State House. This was holy ground for both of us. Lincoln has always been my hero, and Kailey has always been thoughtful and intellectually curious, and watching her engage so seriously with Lincoln’s legacy reminded me of how much we truly share—values, interests, and a reverence for history that runs deep.

That afternoon, July 20, 2016, we reached Chicago for a highlight we’d been looking forward to since planning the trip: a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Colon vs. Hendricks. The Mets vs. the Cubs during what would become their curse-breaking championship season. It was sweltering, the energy was electric, and we soaked it all in. Sharing that game with Kailey, shoulder to shoulder in the Friendly Confines, was one of those moments you don’t fully appreciate until much later.

After the game, we cruised through the University of Chicago campus, then headed east again, spending the night in Ohio. The next day, crossing the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line, we neared my last wishlist item: the East Broad Top Railroad in Rockhill Furnace, Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, it had been closed since 2011, something I hadn’t realized until we arrived. Ever the trooper, Kailey gamely followed me to the Friends of the East Broad Top Museum in Roberstdale—but it too was closed. We laughed off the failed detour and made our way to Duck Donuts in Mechanicsburg to regroup, ice cream and donuts lifting my spirits.

Eventually, we arrived in Philadelphia. Kailey was eager to move into her new apartment and begin this next chapter of her life. Thankfully, her grandparents lived nearby and had furniture to spare. We picked up a U-Haul, conquered IKEA, and even caught a glimpse of the SS United States docked along the Delaware River—a quiet, majestic piece of history just waiting to be remembered. One last fitting tribute.

It took a long day, but between her grandparents and me, we got her settled. I stuck around just long enough to see her begin her journey to becoming a doctor. Not quite ready to finish the trip and return home, I decided to take a walk through Washington Square, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell—sites I’d visited before, but which now carried a new emotional weight. They reminded me not just of America’s story, but of mine—and Kailey’s.

This trip didn’t just deliver my daughter to medical school. It delivered us back to each other. In between the national parks, presidential libraries, the baseball stadiums, and yes, even the train museums, I saw how deeply we were connected. Kailey may not share my passion for narrow-gauge railroads, but she shares so much else: a curiosity for history, a love of learning, and a reverence for the moments and people that shape our world.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch, Ike and Lincoln, Hendricks and Colon, I realized the rift that had opened between us during her teenage years had quietly begun to close. Not through a single conversation or dramatic reconciliation, but through something much simpler: miles on the road, shared passions, and time.

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…

Just Wait 'til Next Year!

Today is the day that all true Chicago Cubs fans dread...today is the day that our beloved Cubbies were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs (worst of all, by the hated Cardinals). Today is the day that the season officially ends for all true Northsiders (even if there are still 8 games remaining in the season).

Yes, it is true that the Cubs still have an outside chance at the National League wild card, and yes the remainder of the season schedule is pretty soft, but for a team that came off the 2008 campaign touted as the best team in the National League, 2009 has been nothing but an abysmal disappointment. But why am I disappointed? Am I really disappointed? I mean for the last 40 years, I have felt the same pain and endured the same taunts from Dirtybird fans come October. Is 2009 so different from all of those other seasons?

Now that the season is (nearly) over, I find myself going through my annual ritual of second-guessing my pre-season optimism and trying to answer Skyler Fishhawk's question (with all due respect to Jeff MacNelly, who penned the comic Shoe).

First off, was this year any different? No, not really, I go into every season expecting the Cubs to win it all. Yes, the Cubs won the NL Central title the last two years and so there was some expectation on my part that they'd repeat this year as well, but really history wouldn't bear that out, and even the Yankees and Braves have had some poor seasons in the midst of good runs... Besides, I really can't remember three years in a row where the Cubs had a winning record (so 2007-2008-2009 are good from that perspective).

But from the beginning, personnel issues were clearly going to dominate the 2009 season, and not in a good way. First was the team's decision to trade DeRosa, and then the decision to pick up the mercurial free-agent Milton Bradley. By the way, to everyone who told me that the Milton Bradley acquisition was going to end badly, you have been vindicated (and I'll be the first to admit that I was too Pollyannaish about him), then the whole where do you bat Soriano fiasco. Adding to those sagas were injuries to Aramis Ramirez, Carlos Zambrano, Ryan Dempster, Ted Lilly, Giovani Soto and Alfonso Soriano and you have the makings of a sub-par season (which would be "normal" for us true die-hards). The fact that Lou (as in Pinella) has been a kinder, gentler version of himself, at least in public, is also of some concern.

But still I remain optimistically disappointed...

The drama around Cubs ownership also weighed heavily at the start of the season. Others have compared Sam Zell (current Tribune Co. Chairman, and Cubs owner) to Henry F. Potter, the Lionel Barrymore character in It's a Wonderful Life and I am starting to believe them. If ever there was a question about why the MLB owners get to screen and approve new potential team owners, Sam Zell has to be the answer. So, like most die-hards I crossed my fingers that the sale would be accomplished quickly -- to whom was irrelevant -- practically anyone would be better. But as the bidding dragged on, and the team entered the season with Zell still at the helm (and all of the drama about selling Wrigley Field), I should have realized that things would be the same. Still, I remained confident that this year, 2009, was going to be our year.

With the perspective of 20-20 hindsight, I can see that I had no reason to be optimistic: The facts show that the past off season was perhaps the worst in Cubs history (or at least in my memory) and that the Cubs current ownership is among the worst in baseball. But that wouldn't have deterred me in any case.

I have many fond, albeit bittersweet, summer memories that recall the Cubs failing to live up to my (our) expectations. As a matter of fact, twenty years ago today, I was glued to the television watching the Cubs clinch their last NL East title (during the 1989 campaign). That post season series ended up being dominated by the Giants (and then the World Series by the Loma Prieta earthquake). But the late September days of 1989 were heady times, as have been the late days of the last two seasons (and 1984, and 1998, and 2003...).

Twenty years ago next week, during that fateful series against the Giants, Mike Royko typed his famous column: Sins of the Fathers. The column expresses the life-long, and even generations-long, suffering of Cubs fans everywhere and how our "optimistic pessimism" is passed from parent to child. Royko implores fathers not to pass on the disease of "optimistic pessimism" to our sons, but it is too late for me. I am the Dad telling his son that tomorrow is a new day. And I do believe that there is always next year, and I always will. Royko, and Cardinals fans, may call me a sucker (Royko wouldn't really mean it) but I do have faith that the 2010 season is going to be the Cubbies year.

I am painfully aware that legions of die-hard Cub fans, including Mr. Royko, Mr. MacNelly, and my great-grandmother, have passed from this earth without seeing the Cubs win a world series... and tonight, I find myself disappointed that, once again, my Cubbies won't play into the depths of October.

But, to answer your question Skyler... As painful as it sounds, there is always another next year. For us die-hard Cubs fans, our "next year" starts tomorrow, September 27, 2009. That is the day I will start to dream about April 2010 and the chances for the Cubs to win a World Series after 102 years of drought...

P.S. Oh, and if Tom Ricketts happens to read this, I'd love to help you re-build the team!

This is Our Year!

Whew, boy! Hey-hey! Cubs Win! Cubs Win!! Cubs Win!!!

Day one of the 2009 MLB campaign and the Cubs are in first place with a 4-2 victory over the Houston Astros! A lead-off home-run from Soriano, coupled with "staff ace" Zambrano hurlig 97 pitches over six innings (his control wasn't too bad, 6 Ks to only 3 walks) to get the win, followed by closer Kevin Gregg's first save as a Cub (despite giving up 2 hits and an earned run) made for an exciting opening day game.

Wrigley, a photo by rpongsaj on Flickr.

I know it is too early to start thinking about the playoffs, and after the Cubs collapsed the last two Octobers -- I don't have any right to be optimistic, but despite my common sense, I know this is going to be our year! But, with a rotation that features Carlos Zambrano, Ted Lilly, Ryan Dempster, and Rich Harden, the Cubbies will have one of the better starting rotations in the division. I think keeping the starting pitchers healthy will be the key to a successful 2009 season.

Now, I wouldn't be a true Cubs fan if I didn't have a grumble or two, so the one thing I am disappointed about is that Sam Zell and the Tribune Company still own the team. The franchise has been on the auction block for nearly two years, but it looks like the Ricketts family will be the owners sometime this Spring, but the fact that Zell is still in charge is a huge disappointment (maybe more so than the playoff collapse against the Dodgers last October).

At any rate, there is light at the end of the ownership tunnel (finally!) As Tom Ricketts, a native Chicagoan and life-long Cubs fan, stated goal is to “...win a World Series and build the consistent championship tradition that the fans deserve.”  The change in ownership can't come too soon for me.

On the field side of the equation, I am sad that we lost Derosa and Wood.  I know why the Cubs let Kerry go, but really hope that Fontenot will be able to step up and replace Derosa at second base--our losses are Cleveland's gains... That said, the acquisition of Bradley, Gregg and Miles during the off season should be interesting. Jim Hendry is either going to look like a genius, or a complete fool.  I know Bradley was a headcase in Los Angeles (and everywhere else really too), but he can produce offensively, and if Lou can get his head straightened out, so much the better. Overall, I'll say that, on paper, the off-season's plusses certainly outweigh the minuses.

Some offensive tweaks, for a team that had the best 2008 regular season record in the National League, coupled with five Cubs' starters who can be dominant, and a combination of Marmol and Gregg closing out the late innings, means we should be in very good shape this year!

I hate to say World Series title contender in April, but 90 wins should lock up the Central Division and if the bullpen can step up and save some wear-and-tear on the starting rotation, the 101 year drought will be over. I know this is going to be our year!

That is of course, if we can get past the Curse of the Billy Goat, damn you Billy Sianis! Why did you have to go and bring a goat to the World Series?!