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 Swing That Sealed It

Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.

May 2013 is a month I will never forget—for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.

Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant—she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve—only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.

And then came the game...

It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.

I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day—a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat, that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.

It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball—he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.

When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure—but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player—he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.

And there he was—on the biggest stage of his high school career.

He took the first pitch. Then came the second.

Crack.

The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence—a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.

I stood there, still, trying to take it in—so proud I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that—something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”

It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.

Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him—always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”

And she was right.

Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High—striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University—his dream to play Division I college baseball, so LMU was a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.

It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia—not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.

The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes—grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.

If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:

And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Cleats and Chaos: Finding Meaning Beyond the Scoreboard

The Best and Worst of Little League

Volunteering as a Little League coach, umpire, board member, and eventually president was one of the most meaningful—and most chaotic—experiences of my life. At its best, it was pure joy: being on the field, working directly with my children and their teammates, teaching the game, and watching them grow in confidence and character. At its worst, it was a front-row seat to adult egos run amok, with the scoreboard too often overshadowing the scoreboard of life lessons that really matter.

The heart of Little League is, and should always be, the kids. Coaching them was a privilege. Whether it was watching a timid player finally connect for their first hit, seeing teammates encourage one another after a tough inning, or simply enjoying the chaos and laughter of practice—those moments were the reason I signed up. There’s a unique magic in youth sports that exists far beyond wins and losses. It’s about learning, developing resilience, discovering joy in effort, and being part of something bigger than yourself.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a perfect coach by any stretch of the imagination. There was the time my son was pitching, and he had given up a home run and a couple of walks. I called time to pay a mound visit when my son tried to wave (or shoo) me back to the dugout, I told him to "Get your head out of your @##." We were both frustrated before I got to the mound, so my words weren't helpful (and not my best parenting or coaching moment either). In another pitching "incident," I allowed a young player to come in as a relief pitcher. He had begged me at every practice and game for weeks to allow him to pitch. I knew he wasn't ready... I sent him out to the pitching mound anyway, hoping for the best. After he walked 6 batters in a row (without throwing a strike), I went to the mound and relegated him to right field... In hindsight, I wish I had worked with him more so that he was better prepared (and that I hadn't caved to his request).

Looking back, I know I wasn’t immune to poor judgment or pressure. But those moments, embarrassing as they were, taught me that humility and growth are far more important than winning any game. But all too often, that lesson gets drowned out by the noise from the sidelines.

As president of our league, I faced the unfortunate reality that some adults put their own egos ahead of the kids. I dealt with parents trying to relive their own athletic glory through their children—pushing too hard, criticizing too loudly, and forgetting that this game was supposed to be fun. I witnessed others attempting to bend or break the rules just to gain an edge on the scoreboard, as if youth baseball was a stepping stone to some professional dream, rather than a stage for growth and camaraderie.

Some used their roles as volunteers or administrators to seek advantages for their child’s team—subtle manipulations that eroded trust and undermined the spirit of fair play. That was the most disheartening part of leading the league: managing the politics and misplaced priorities of adults who had forgotten that youth sports are not about them.

Our "competitive Tee Ball" division was one of those areas where there were already problems. What was intended to be a lighthearted, developmental experience for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds had became a proving ground for adults who had lost sight of the purpose of youth sports. Parents shouted at umpires over calls that didn't matter. Coaches argued with each other, lobbied to stack teams with older, stronger players, and instructed their players to make fundamentally unsound plays to take advantage of Byzantine rule loopholes. The joy and discovery that should define tee ball were often replaced by pressure, frustration, and confusion for the children on the field.

Rather than addressing the root causes of the dysfunction—unchecked competitiveness and misplaced priorities—league administrators leaned into the problem. They formalized standings, hosted all-star games, and implemented a playoff bracket for six-year-olds. These rules weren’t built to foster teamwork, teach fundamentals, or help kids fall in love with the game. They were crafted to validate adult egos. The result was a structure that encouraged adults to treat a child's first exposure to baseball as if it were the Little League World Series. In trying to legitimize their own competitiveness, the adults inadvertently undermined the very growth and joy the league was meant to nurture.

And as any adult who has participated in youth sports knows, these problems don't just go away as the kids progress. The kids get older and they move up levels... and their parents come with them, with all the bad habits and animosities they learned at the previous levels.

I was lucky that we moved into this league after my son was too old for Tee Ball. He played in a developmental league when he was five years old, Tee Ball in the first half of the season, and "coach pitch" in the second. When he moved up a level at seven years old, it was coach pitch the first half of the season and "kid pitch" the second.  By the time he was eight- and nine-years-old, he was ready to compete with kids his own age, and we were doubly lucky that he mainly played on teams with good coaches and managers (me notwithstanding).

So, when I became president of the league, once my son started middle school, I truly wasn't ready for the craziness to come. I thought stepping into a leadership role would mean organizing schedules, ordering uniforms, and maybe handing out trophies at the end of the season. Instead, I often found myself less like a league president and more like a crisis manager for adults. Week after week, I mediated shouting matches between coaches, issued warnings to parents berating umpires, and fielded emergency calls over sideline confrontations that escalated far beyond what any Saturday youth game should entail.

When I moved from the dugout to the boardroom, the stakes changed. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a coach trying to help a group of kids—I was the one responsible for keeping the league itself from unraveling.

Some of the biggest challenges came from coaches who embodied a “win at all costs” mentality. These weren’t just competitive people—they were adults who treated every youth game like Game 7 of the World Series. They ran up scores, manipulated lineups, and bent rules not for the kids, but for the scoreboard. And while I’ll be the first to admit I love winning and hate losing, that mindset robs the kids of something essential. 

The most surreal part was dealing with parents of 10-year-olds convinced that their child’s future athletic scholarship was on the line because they only played three innings instead of four. These weren't one-off concerns—they came bundled in long emails, accusations of favoritism, and ultimatums about pulling kids from the league. And the coaches? Some couldn’t even pretend to get along, letting old grudges play out through passive-aggressive lineup decisions or loud confrontations in front of the kids. It stopped being about teaching the game and started to feel like a proxy war for adult egos. What should have been a community effort to build confidence and camaraderie in children too often became a theater of insecurity and misplaced ambition.

CVLL President Joseph Boeke, presenting the 2011 Grace Chase Sportsmanship Award to Jason Crosthwaite.

Still, for all the drama, there were moments that reminded me why I stayed. Opening Day was always a favorite: kids in fresh uniforms buzzing with excitement, running the bases in skills competitions, their parents actually cheering (instead of complaining), and everyone enjoying the simple thrill of baseball. I loved the closing ceremonies too—awards, all-star announcements, and the sense that, despite everything, we’d created something meaningful.

And I kept coaching. I kept showing up for practices and games, especially when my daughter was on the field. Every time I laced up my cleats and walked onto the diamond, the noise of the adult world faded just a little. There was something grounding in helping a kid make their first catch or watching a team cheer each other on after a tough inning.

I remember sitting near the dugout during one of my daughter’s games, listening to the girls shout their chants and rhymes while their team was up to bat. That dugout energy was pure magic—supportive, silly, loud, and full of joy. One of their cheers stuck with me:

Do it again, we liked it, we liked it. 

Do it again, We liked it, We liked it.

Faith playing softball for her Kiwanis Club team in 2011.

It was a reminder that these kids understood something many adults seemed to forget: the value of simply showing up for each other. The girls had the most fun when they stopped making it about themselves and focused on their teammates, win or lose.

Youth sports are supposed to be where kids learn teamwork, resilience, and sportsmanship—not where they become pawns in an adult’s quest for validation. When the focus shifts from development to domination, the kids lose more than a game—they lose a chance to discover joy, teamwork, and the quiet confidence that comes from simply being allowed to grow.

Don’t get me wrong—I value many of the adult friendships I made during my time in the league, even the complicated ones. By the time my son reached his freshman year of high school baseball, I had only managed to see him play two or three times. Running the league had slowly replaced watching my own son play the game we both loved. Mediating adult conflicts became work. Watching kids play was joy. So I stepped away—not from baseball, but from the chaos—and returned to my favorite title: Dad. Not a dad trying to outcoach or outmaneuver other dads. Just a dad in the stands, cheering his kids on.

In the end, what Little League gave me wasn't just a front-row seat to my children's growth—it gave me a deeper understanding of my own. It reminded me that youth sports aren't about crafting champions; they’re about building character. They're not about polishing résumés for future scholarships; they're about teaching kids how to fail, try again, and love the game anyway. And maybe, if we’re lucky, they teach us grown-ups a little something too—about humility, patience, and the importance of knowing when to step back and let the kids lead the way. What mattered most wasn’t the final scores or standings. It was watching my kids—and so many others—learn how to stand tall after a strikeout, celebrate a teammate’s success, and fall in love with a game that gives far more than it ever takes. That’s the meaning I found beyond the scoreboard. And that’s what I’ll carry with me long after the chaos has faded.

Hustle Ball

Back when I was a kid, baseball practice was boring (for the most part). Two hours of waiting for a turn to do something. We'd start by warming up our arms, but that was pretty much it. Then we'd take positions assigned by the coach, and he'd hit balls to us to simulate situations—runners at first and third, etc. After 45 minutes to an hour of this, we’d start some kind of batting practice. One or two players would come in off the field: one to hit, one to wait. Then rotate outfield to dugout, and so on.

I can still, three decades later, remember waiting all practice just for the opportunity to hit. The rest of practice was just waiting—punctuated by the occasional field or throw. Even when I played catcher and touched the ball more often, it remained a rather dull experience. And for the rest of the team, 8 or so kids were doing almost nothing for two hours. A wasted opportunity to build skills.

So, when I coach, I take a more methodical approach with rotating skill stations. But stations require supervision—not just for safety, but to ensure proper instruction. Repetition only helps if the technique is right. The problem is: many youth coaches lack the help they need to make this happen, despite having solid practice plans (which I highly recommend writing out in advance).

For those coaches with limited help, here’s a suggestion: most youth teams have 12 players—divide them into three squads of four. Then enlist three parent volunteers to help supervise. This breakdown makes practices more efficient and keeps kids engaged. With small groups, you can provide quick instruction, then let the kids work with one another or a volunteer to run the drill, allowing you to circulate and give guidance.

Uneven groups aren’t ideal but manageable. Just aim to reduce downtime.

Squads also foster competition—players strive to set or beat records. Most kids love to compete, and it helps you assess their progress quickly.

To wrap practice, we play a fast-paced game called Hustle Ball. The key is hustle (not just speed). Once learned, we can run a six-inning game in 30 minutes or less.

Equipment

• 4 Ball Buckets
• 1 L-Screen
• 1 Stopwatch
• 2 Coaches

Setup is pretty easy, empty 3 ball buckets into one, then place an empty ball bucket in foul territory behind first base; another behind second base; and one next to the catcher.

Place the full bucket of baseballs behind the L-Screen for a coach to throw. One coach will be the pitcher for both teams and one will keep time on the stopwatch.

Rules

• Standard baseball rules apply, with these adjustments:
• Start with generous time between pitches and innings (work toward 10 sec/pitch, 30 sec/inning).
• Hitters start with a 2-1 count.
• Catcher places balls in the bucket beside him, not thrown back.
• After a play, defense has 10 seconds to bucket the ball; offense has 10 to send in the next hitter.
• Countdown begins at 5 seconds: “5-4-3-2-1,” then pitch is thrown.
• Fielders bucket balls after plays—no returns to the pitcher.
• After the third out, 2B/SS bring their bucket to the mound and refill the coach’s bucket.
• Incoming fielders reverse the process. Failing this = automatic out.

Teams have 30 seconds between innings. If the first batter isn’t ready—helmet on, in the box—when time’s up, a pitch is thrown and counts as a strike. Same for unready defense: the pitch is live.

To emphasize hustle, call outs if bats or helmets are left near the field, or players walk instead of sprinting on/off the field. My players keep helmets on when fielding to simplify transitions.

Try this approach. After 60–90 minutes of drills, players enjoy actually playing. And they’ll be excited for the next practice.

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!

Babe Ruth - 2009 PSW Regionals, Game #4

Sunday, August 9, 2009
Eureka Babe Ruth Field, Eureka, CA

La Crescenta          1 0 0  0 5 0  7 – 15 14 5
Madera                0 0 0  2 3 2  1 –  8 10 4


La Crescenta       ab  r  h rbi
White ss            4  2  2  1
Okimoto 2b          3  2  0  0
Sullivan c,p,c      5  1  4  0
Tavizon lf          3  2  1  1
Alonso p,3b         2  2  1  1
Ha rf               3  2  0  1
Boeke 3b,c,lf,1b    5  3  3  2
Wang cf             4  1  3  6
Rea 1b              2  0  0  0
 - Cook p           2  0  0  0
Totals             33 15 14 12

Madera             ab  r  h rbi
Garcia cf           5  1  1  0
Mendrin ss,p        5  1  2  1
Roberts rf,1b       5  1  1  0
Bertoncini c        2  0  0  0
Martinez, A. lf     3  2  0  1
Coronado 2b         4  2  3  4
Cappelluti 1b       1  0  0  0
 - Gallardo 3b      1  0  0  0
 - Mosqueda ph      1  0  0  0
Martinez, S. p,rf   4  1  2  1
Granado 3b,p        2  0  1  0
Totals             33  8 10  7

E–La Crescenta-Sullivan (2), Boeke (1), White (1) Rea (1); 
Madera-Martinez, S (1), Martinez, A (1), Bertoncini (2)
2B–Madera-Garcia (1,off Cook), Roberts (1,off Tavizon).
3B–La Crescenta-Wang (2, 1 off Grenado, 1 off Wang).
Sac–Madera-Cappelluti (1,off Sullivan).
SB–La Crescenta-White (1,3rd base off Martinez/Bertoncini),
Okimoto (1,2nd base off Martinez/Bertoncini), Tavizon (1,2nd
base off S. Martinez/Bertoncini), Boeke (1,2nd base off 
Granado/Bertoncini), Rea (1,2nd base off S. 
Martinez/Bertoncini); Madera-Mendrin (1, 2nd base off 
Cook/Sullivan), Martinez, A. (2,2nd base off Sullivan/Boeke
& 2nd base off Tavizon/Sullivan, Martinez, S. (1, 2nd base 
off Cook/Sullivan).
CS-White (1)

Pitchers

La Crescenta   IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Alonso        3.0  0  0   0   1   0
Sullivan      0.1  2  2   2   1   0
Tavizon       1.2  3  3   2   0   0
Cook (W)      2.0  5  3   3   4   4

Madera         IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Martinez      4.1  5  5   4   7   3
Granado (L)   2.0  7  5   7   3   2
Mendrin       0.2  3  3   3   1   1 

WP–La Crescenta-Sullivan (1); Madera-Martinez, S. (1), 
Granado (1)
Balk— Madera-Granado (1).
PB—La Crescenta-Sullivan (2).
BS-La Crescenta-Cook  

Scoring Summary
Top 1st: La Crescenta
- J. White singled to right field
- C. Okimoto reached first on a throwing error by J. 
Mendrin, White to second base
- J. White stole third
- J. White scored on a wild pitch by S. Marinez.
Bot 4th: Madera
- A. Martinez walked and stole second base, then advanced 
on a wild pitch by R. Sullivan.
- R. Coronado hit an infield single to second, scoring 
A. Martinez
- W. Cappelluti sacrificed R. Coronado to second
- S. Martinez hit a single to right field, scoring R. 
Coronado.
Top 5th: La Crescenta
- C. Okimoto led off with a walk, and stole second base
- R. Sullivan singles to left field, Okimoto scores on 
fielding error by A. Martinez, Sullivan to second
- C. Tavizon singles to right field, Sullivan thrown out at
home, Tavizon to second on throw.
- B. Alonso walks
- T. Ha walks
- I. Granado relieves S. Martinez
- T. Boeke singles to center, scoring C. Tavizon
- B. Wang singles to right, scoring B. Alonso and T. Ha
- T. Boeke balked to 3rd base (Wang to second) by I. Granado
- T. Boeke scores on wild pitch by I. Granado.
Bot 5th: Madera
- S. Roberts doubled to right center
- D. Bertoncini walks
- A. Martinez reaches first on a fielder’s choice 
(Bertoncini out at second, Roberts to 3rd base).
- A. Martinez steals second base
- R. Coronado singles to right, scoring S. Roberts and 
A. Martinez, and advances to second on throw to the plate
- R. Gallardo advances Coronado to 3rd base on a fielder’s 
choice
- R. Coronado scores on a throwing error by R. Sullivan.
Bot 6th: Madera
- Cook relives Tavizon
- I. Garcia doubles down the left field line
- J. Mendrin singles to left, Garcia to 3rd base
- D. Bertoncini walks
- A. Martinez walks, scoring Garcia
- R. Coronado singles to left, scoring Mendrin.
Top 7th: La Crescenta
- T. Boeke singles to left field
- B. Wang hits a triple to right center, scoring Boeke
- J. White reaches first on a fielder’s choice, scoring 
B. Wang, White advances to second on a throwing error by
D. Bertoncini
- C. Okimoto walks
- R. Sullivan singled to left field
- C. Tavizon walks, scoring J. White
- B. Alonso singled to left field scoring C. Okimoto
- T. Ha walks, scoring R. Sullivan
- T. Boeke singles to right scoring C. Tavizon
- B. Wang triples to deep center field, scoring B. Alonso, 
T. Ha and T. Boeke. 
Bot 7th: Madera
- S. Martinez reaches first on an infield single and steals
2nd base
- I. Granado walks
- J. Mendrin singles to left field, scoring S. Martinez.

Babe Ruth - 2009 PSW Regionals, Game #3

Saturday, August 8, 2009
Eureka Babe Ruth Field, Eureka, CA

La Crescenta          1 0 0  0 0 7  5 – 13 13 2
Somervile-Yaqui (AZ)  0 0 3  0 0 0  2 –  5  5 1

La Crescenta       ab  r  h rbi
White ss            3  3  2  0
Okimoto 2b          2  2  1  2
Sullivan c          4  1  3  5
Tavizon cf,lf       3  1  1  1
Alonso 3b           5  0  3  1
Ha rf               3  1  0  0
Boeke lf,p          4  2  2  0
Wang p,cf           3  0  0  0
 - Marquis ph       0  1  0  0
Rea 1b              3  1  1  1
 - Cook ph          1  1  0  0
Totals             31 13 13 10

Somervile-Yaqui    ab  r  h rbi
Rosas cf            2  1  1  0
 - Beltran ph       1  0  0  0
Lopez 2b            3  2  1  0
Gonzales ss         4  0  1  2
Estrada c           4  0  3  1
Aguirreberrena 1b   3  0  0  0
Aguilar 3b          2  0  0  0
Miranda rf          2  0  0  0
Villegas p,3b       3  0  0  0
Esparza lf          2  1  0  0
 - Magana ph        1  1  0  0
Totals             27  5  6  3

E–La Crescenta Alonso (1), White (1); 
Somervile-Yaqui Lopez (1). 
2B–La Crescenta Alonso (1,off Aguilar); 
Somervile-Yaqui Lopez (1,off Boeke), Estrada (1,off Boeke).
3B–La Crescenta Tavizon (1,off Aguilar).  
Sac–Okimoto (1,off Villegas), Sullivan (1,off Villegas).
SB–La Crescenta Sullivan (2,2nd base off Aguilar/Estrada,
3rd base off Aguilar/Estrada)

Pitchers

La Crescenta    IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Wang*          2.0  0  3   3   5   3
Boeke (W)      5.0  6  2   1   0   5

Somervile-Yaqui IP  H   R  ER  BB  SO
Villegas*      5.1  5   2   3   5   1
Aguilar (L)*   0.2  7  11  10   3   0
Gonzales       1.0  1   0   0   1   0

*Wang pitched to 3 batters in the 3rd inning; Villegas 
pitched to 2 batters in the 6th inning and Aguilar pitched
to 5 batters in the 7th inning.

WP–Somervile-Yaqui Aguilar (1).
Balk—La Crescenta-Boeke (2).
PB—La Crescenta-Sullivan (2).  

Scoring Summary
Top 1st: La Crescenta
- J. White singled to left field
- C. Okimoto sacrificed White to second base
- R. Sulivan singled to left J. White scored.
Bot 3rd: Somervile-Yaqui
- E. Esparza walked
- M. Rosas walked
- I. Lopez walked, T. Boeke relived B. Wang
- T. Boeke balked home Esparza.
- J. Estrada singled to right, scoring M. Rosas
- T. Boeke balked home I. Lopez. 
Top 6th: La Crescenta
- B. Alonso singled to left
- T. Ha walked
- A. Aguilar relived F. Villegas
- T. Boeke singled to right
- B. Wang reached first on a fielder’s choice, B, Alonso
out at home.
- N. Rea reached first on a throwing error by I. Lopez, 
B. Wang out at second base, T. Boeke scored.
- J. White singled to left, N. Rea to third, J. White 
advancing on the throw.
- N. Rea scored on a wild pitch by Aguilar, J. White to 
third.
- C. Okimoto walked and advanced to second on defensive 
indifference
- R. Sullivan singled to left field, scoring J. White and C. 
Okimoto, R. Sullivan to second on throw
- C. Tavizon triples to left field, R. Sullivan scoring
- B. Alonso doubles to left field, C Tavizon scores.
Top 7th: La Crescenta
- T. Boeke singles to right center field, steals second and
third base
- C. Marquis walked
- J. Cook reaches first on a fielder’s choice, T. Boeke 
scores, Marquis to second
- J. White walked
- C. Okimoto singled to left field, C. Marquis and J. Cook
scoring
- A. Gonzales relived A. Aguilar
- R. Sullivan singled to left field scoring J. White and 
C. Okimoto.
Bot 7th: Somervile-Yaqui
- A. Magana reached first on fielding error by J. White
- I. Lopez doubled down the left field line
- A. Gonzales singled down the right field line, scoring 
A. Magana and I. Lopez.

Babe Ruth - 2009 PSW Regionals, Game #2

Friday, August 7, 2009
Eureka Babe Ruth Field, Eureka, CA

Tri Valley      0 0 0  1 3 0  0 – 4 6 1
La Crescenta    0 0 0  0 0 0  1 – 1 1 4


Tri Valley         ab  r  h rbi
Soltis cf           3  0  0  0
Anderson 3b         3  1  1  1
Sprugasci p         3  1  1  0
Dronkers 1b         4  0  0  1
Fernandez rf        3  1  2  1
Allman lf           3  0  0  0
 - Piscoty ss       0  0  0  0
Franco 2b           2  0  1  0
Jackson c           3  0  0  0
Pluschell ss        1  0  1  0
 - Robbins lf       2  1  0  0
Totals             27  4  6  3

La Crescenta       ab  r  h rbi
Okimoto 2b          1  0  0  0
Ha rf               2  0  0  0
 - Marquis ph       1  0  0  0
Sullivan 3b         3  0  0  0
White ss            2  1  0  0
Tavizon lf          3  0  0  0
Alonso c            3  0  1  1
 - Tremain pr       0  0  0  0
Boeke 1b,p          3  0  0  0
Wang cf             1  0  0  0
 - Moscicki ph      1  0  0  0
Cook p              1  0  0  0
 - Rea 1b,lf        1  0  0  0
Totals             22  1  1  1

E–Tri Valley-Jackson (1); La Crescenta-White (1), Boeke (2),
Ha (1). 
2B–Tri Valley-Anderson (1,off Cook); La Crescenta Alonso 
(1,off Sprugasci).
HBP–La Crescenta-White (1,by Sprugasci). 
Sac–Soltis (1,off Cook), Anderson (1,off Cook).  
CS–Okimoto (1,2nd base by Sprugasci/Jackson), Boeke (1,2nd
base by Sprugasci/Jackson).
SB–Tri Valley-Sprugasci (1,2nd base off Cook/Alonso); 
La Crescenta-White (1,2nd base off Sprugasci/Jackson).

Pitchers

La Crescenta   IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Cook (L)      5.0  5  4   3   2   4
Boeke         2.0  1  0   0   0   2

Tri Valley        IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Sprugasci (W)    7.0  1  1   1   2   5

PB-Tri Valley-Jackson (1); La Crescenta-Alonso (1)
HBP–Tri Valley-Sprugasci (1,White).  

Scoring Summary
Top 4th: Tri Valley
- V. Fernandez singles to left field
- K. Franco singles to right center field, Fernandez scores
on fielding error by Okimoto on relay.
Top 5th: Tri Valley
- N. Robbins reaches first on fielding error by Boeke
- C. Soltis sacrifices Robbins to second
- R. Anderson doubles to right center field, scoring Robbins
- R. Anderson balked to third by Cook
- J. Sprugasci walks and steals 2nd base
- J. Dronkers hits into a fielder’s choice to short, Anderson 
scored
- V. Fernandez hits a single to center field, Sprugasci 
scores.
Bot 7th: La Crescenta
- J. White hit by a pitch and steals 2 base
- B. Alonso doubles to center field, scoring White.

Babe Ruth - 2009 PSW Regionals, Game #1

Thursday, August 6, 2009
Eureka Babe Ruth Field, Eureka, CA

La Crescenta    0 1 0 1 0 1 1 – 4 9 1
Eureka          1 1 0 0 0 0 0 – 2 2 1

La Crescenta ab r h rbi Okimoto 2b 2 0 2 2 Ha rf 4 0 0 0 Tavizon lf/p 4 0 1 0 Alonso p/3b 3 0 0 0 - Moscicki pr 0 1 0 0 Sullivan c 3 1 1 0 White ss 3 0 1 1 Boeke 3b,1b 4 1 1 0 Wang cf 4 1 1 0 Rea 1b,lf 2 0 2 1 Totals 29 4 9 4 Eureka ab r h rbi Raxa cf 4 1 2 1 Ables ss 2 0 0 0 Kirk c 3 0 0 0 Stone p 3 0 0 1 Snipes 3b 3 0 0 0 Swanson rf 0 1 0 0 Masten lf 2 0 0 0 - Crews ph,lf 1 0 0 0 Savage 1b 2 0 0 0 - Crews ph,1b 1 0 0 0 Maples 2b 2 0 0 0 - Martin ph,2b 1 0 0 0 Totals 24 2 2 2

©Rich Bickel/Times Standard La Crescenta's #21, Ted Boeke, slides safely into home in front of Eureka's Matt Kirk to score the tying run in the fourth inning.

E–La Crescenta Alonso (1); Eureka Snipes (1).
2B–La Crescenta Sullivan (1,off Stone), Boeke (1,off Stone), 
White (1,off Stone); Eureka Raxa (1,off Alonso)
3B–Eureka Raxa (1,off Alonso).
HBP–Swanson (1,by Alonso).
SF–Stone (1,off Alonso).
CS–Okimoto (1,2nd base by Kirk/Maples).
SB–La Crescenta Sullivan (1,2nd base off Stone/Kirk);
Eureka Ables (1,2nd base off Alonso/Sullivan), Swanson
(1,2nd base off Alonso/Sullivan).

Pitchers

La Crescenta   IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Alonso        4.0  2  2   2   5   6
Tavizon (W)   3.0  0  0   0   4   5

Eureka         IP  H  R  ER  BB  SO
Stone (L)     7.0  9  4   4   5  12

WP–La Crescenta Alonso (1), Tavizon (1); Eureka Stone (1).
HBP–La Crescenta Alonso (1,Swanson).

Scoring Summary
Bot 1st: Eureka
- D. Raxa tripled to deep center
- K. Ables walked and stole second base
- Z. Stone hit a sacrifice fly to left field, D. Raxa scored
Top 2nd: La Crescenta
- R. Sullivan walked, J. White walked, Nolan Rea walked, 
C. Okimoto walked, scoring Sullivan.
Bot 2nd: Eureka
- D. Raxa doubled to right center field
- E. Savage walked, D. Raxa hit a double to the right
Top 4th: La Crescenta
- T. Boeke doubled to right center field
- N. Rea singled to right field, scoring Boeke
Top 6th: La Crescenta
- B. Wang singled to right center field
- N. Rea singled to center field
- C. Okimoto singled to second, scoring Wang
Top 7th: La Crescenta
- B. Alonso drew a walk, Moscicki pinch ran
- R. Sullivan reaches first on a fielder’s choice, Moscicki 
safe at second on throwing error by Snipes.
- J. White doubles to right center field, scoring Moscicki.

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?!