Remembering When Santa Couldn't Find Flipper

A Christmas Story About Loss, Hope, and the Magic We Can't Always Make

There's a Calvin and Hobbes strip that perfectly captures the quiet exasperation and reluctant love parents feel when trying to fix their child's world. It's night, and Calvin's parents are out in the woods searching for Hobbes, Calvin’s lost stuffed tiger. Calvin’s dad grumbles about how ridiculous it is to look for a toy in the dark, while his mom, flashlight in hand, calls out “Ho-o-obbes!” into the trees. In the final panel, she sheepishly admits how silly it feels, and Calvin’s dad replies, “I may be crazy, but I’m not as crazy as you.” It's a moment that’s both absurd and touching—two parents doing something ridiculous simply because it matters deeply to their child.

I think about that strip every time I remember the Christmas of the Missing Flipper.

The Crisis

Faith was about five, and we were doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the mall—that particular kind of December chaos where holiday music battles crying toddlers and everyone's running on caffeine and determination. Faith had brought Flipper with her, as she always did. He was her constant companion, a small gray dolphin I'd picked up years earlier from the gift shop at the Houston Aquarium during a business trip.

Flipper wasn't much to look at—standard stuffed animal fare, the kind you'd find in any aquarium gift shop. But to Faith, he was everything. He had the perfect amount of squishiness, the right weight in her arms, and that indefinable something that makes one toy irreplaceable while a dozen identical ones gather dust.

Somewhere between the food court and Santa's village, Flipper disappeared.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Faith's face crumpled in that way that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. We retraced our steps, asked mall security, checked lost and found. Nothing. Flipper was gone, swallowed up by the holiday crowds and the vast anonymity of shopping mall America.

The Promise

Standing in that mall, watching my daughter's world fall apart over a $12 stuffed dolphin, I did what parents do when backed into an impossible corner: I improvised. I made a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Santa will find Flipper. He has helpers everywhere, and they'll look for him. Santa will bring him back for Christmas."

It was the kind of parental promise that feels necessary in the moment and terrifying immediately after. But Faith's tears stopped, replaced by that beautiful, trusting hope that makes childhood both magical and heartbreaking. She believed Santa could do what we couldn't.

The Search

I was confident this would be easy. I'd bought Flipper at the Houston Aquarium—how hard could it be to call the gift shop and order another one?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Flippers that didn't make the cut

The gift shop no longer carried that particular plush. It had been discontinued. The helpful employee suggested I try their website, other aquarium gift shops, maybe eBay. What had seemed like a simple phone call became a quest that would span two states and the entire internet.

I visited every toy store in Southern California. I bought dolphins from eBay sellers across the country. I examined plush marine life with the intensity of a marine biologist. Gray dolphins, blue dolphins, small dolphins, large dolphins—I acquired enough stuffed sea creatures to stock my own aquarium gift shop.

But none of them were Flipper. None had quite the right shade of gray, the same fin shape, the perfect degree of huggability that made Flipper irreplaceable. Each purchase was accompanied by a mixture of hope and growing dread as I realized the magnitude of what I'd promised.

The Letter

Christmas Eve arrived, and I still hadn't found him. Faith had asked about Flipper every day, her faith in Santa's abilities unwavering. I was going to have to tell her that even Santa had limits.

So I did what parents do when magic fails: I tried to make meaning from the disappointment.

Santa's letter explained that he and his elves had searched the whole world for Flipper. They'd checked toy stores and aquariums, looked in children's bedrooms and under Christmas trees. But sometimes, Santa wrote, when a special toy gets lost, it finds its way to a child who needs it even more—maybe a little boy or girl who didn't have any toys at all, who needed Flipper's comfort even more than Faith did.

Santa was sure Flipper was in good hands, making another child feel loved and safe. And while he couldn't bring back the original Flipper, he hoped Faith would give this new dolphin a chance to become just as special.

The Reality

Faith accepted the explanation with the grace that children sometimes show when adults are honest with them about hard things. She named the new dolphin Flipper 2 and dutifully carried him around for a while. But it was never the same. You can't manufacture the bond between a child and their chosen comfort object, no matter how much love and Santa magic you pour into the attempt.

Flipper Two was tolerated rather than treasured, a constant reminder of what had been lost rather than what had been found.

The Redemption

Faith & a Flipper, St. Nicholas Day 2006.

For a few years St. Nick, who is fond of brining good children stuffed animals on St. Nicholas Day, brought a new dolphin to bring to Faith—mainly to assuage my guilt. Soon enough, she found herself with a bed full of stuffed dolphins. She liked them all but my (and St. Nicholas') quest continued. Finally, a few years later, browsing yet another toy store during the holidays, I found him. Not Flipper—that ship had sailed—but his nearly identical twin. The same shade of gray, the same proportions, the same soft texture that had made the original so perfect.

This time, I didn't promise Faith that Santa had found the original Flipper. St. Nicholas simply left the new dolphin in her stocking with a small note: "Sometimes miracles take a little longer to arrive."

By then, Faith was older, wiser about the ways of the world and the limitations of holiday magic. But she accepted this dolphin with something approaching the old affection, and he became a gentle presence in her room—not quite Flipper, but close enough to bring comfort without the weight of impossible expectations.

The Lesson

In the Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin does eventually find Hobbes—his friend Susie had been taking care of him. But the relief comes only after Calvin has experienced the full weight of loss, the helplessness of searching, and the devastating possibility that his best friend might be gone forever. Sometimes the world does restore what's been taken from our children, but not always, and not on our timeline. The magic we create as parents—the reindeer feed, the special keys, the carefully crafted stories—works beautifully when we're building wonder. But it has limits when we're trying to heal genuine loss.

What I learned from the Great Flipper Crisis is that sometimes the most honest magic we can offer our children isn't the promise that everything lost will be found, but the assurance that they're strong enough to survive the losing. That love doesn't end when comfort objects disappear. That new attachments are possible, even if they're different from what came before.

New/Old Flipper

Faith is in college now, and one of the Flippers still sits on her dorm room bed—a quiet testament to the enduring power of comfort, even when it comes in unexpected forms. But I still remember the lesson of that Christmas—that parental love is powerful, but not omnipotent. Sometimes the best gift we can give our children isn't the restoration of what was lost, but the modeling of how to keep going when restoration isn't possible.

The magic we make works best when it celebrates what's present, not when it promises to undo what's past. And sometimes, that's enough.

Merry Christmas, and may all your important things stay found—but may you find strength when they don't.

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…