Need I say more?
Need I say more?
Hey there, ring tones. I had to go to San Francisco the other day, which was pretty much a series of kidney stone moments for me, only with extra large, economy-size beach balls instead of those little tiny rock doo-dads. It was a lot like being in Road Warrior, if you know what I mean. I’ll spare you the play-by-play, except for the biggest get-me-the-hell-outta-here moment, which was me trying to talk to a live human at AT&T. Not the ball park, the phone company.
I bring this up for one reason: to help put the frustrations of being a Cubs fan into perspective. It looks a whole lot different for the Cubs this year, I grant you that. But let’s just say something weird happens, like the even numbered year thing the Giants got going, or Obama does one of his executive orders mandating the White Sox as World Series champs. (Technically, I guess that wouldn’t be considered weird for the guy.) So the curse continues, right? Well I’ll tell you one thing, pal, that damn curse is nothing compared to working your way through that friggin’ pain-in-the-ass AT&T computer voice thingy.
I’d rather be forced to hold hands with A-Rod, and watch a 24-hour loop of the Bartman play, and do it wearing a Cardinals jersey while sittin’ next to that obnoxious San Diego Chicken (last name always omitted for obscenity reasons) than trying to get a pulse on the line at AT&T. And isn’t that their friggin’ business?! Hey, AT&T! You’re a phone company! You’re supposed to answer the damn phone! I had to do it twice, too. TWICE! Cuz the first time, when I was finally told I was being connected to a live person, I got cut off. But not before the 5 minutes of ‘dead’ sound where you think you got cut off but you stay on the line just in case that’s how their phones sound when you’re on hold. So I waited. Stupidly. This is AT&T’s way of not having to deal with you. They’re trying to frustrate you so you’ll go away. At least the Cubs have never done it on purpose. I don’t think. Maybe Soriano and Marmol when they were around. But the rest of the guys? No way.
So as you can imagine, I can’t stand AT&T, or stuff they put their name on … or teams that play in stuff they put their name on. Anyway, since the Giants play half their games at AT&T Park, I’m hoping this incompetence thing that AT&T has going for it makes like the Zika virus and infects the whole team. Except for Posey. Gotta cut a guy with that name some slack. Besides … it ain’t over until we say it’s over, pal. I mean, was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?!
Dirty Harry Callahan was from San Francisco, not Chicago, which means that he was probably rooting for the wrong team. I cut him a wide birth on that one, though, cuz in those days the Giants had Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bonds and both Willies (Mays and McCovey). Sheesh … I mean how could you not root for that lineup? Anyway, Callahan may have been from that fogged-in, hippie-infested (it was the 70s, pal), crime-ridden city, but knew EXACTLY how to eat a hot dog: No friggin’ catchup!
I bring this up because some of you — and you know who you are — obviously were not paying attention to the Cheap Seats dining rules I posted a couple of days ago. Hey … you can do what you want, pal, but if Charlie Trotter was still around and saw you smothering an encased meat product with catchup, he send you to the moon, Alice.
Let me start by saying that I love ESPN. I’ve been an addict since way back, back, back, back, back when Chris Berman could still see his toes. Since before ESPN 2 and ESPN 3 and Deportes. Since before Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser started yelling at each other, and before Keith Olbermann became such a ginormous a-hole. My first words were “DaDaDa. DaDaDa.”
I was pickin’ up an ice cold sixer of Old Style today, and while scanning the mags at the check out line (Hey, did you know the bitter marriage between Barack Obama and his wife Michelle continues to fall apart in the wake of the president’s womanizing?) when ESPN The Magazine’s cover grabbed my disbelieving eyeballs like a Fabricio Werdum guillotine.
There’s football on the cover! FOOTBALL!
I got a Prince Fielder sized problem with that, pal. First, there is the obvious fact that baseball kicks football’s ass. Second, it ain’t football season. It’s baseball season and hockey season and basketball season, but not football season. Third, and by far the one that’s stuck the furthest into the nether regions of my craw (whatever that is), is that the one team in sports history — not just baseball, but all sports — that has had the biggest, longest, ugliest, most painful dry spell known to man — the friggin’ Chicago Cubs — are on an 8-1 tear; one of the best starts in franchise history. They’re averaging over seven runs a game. Yeah, you read that right. And…AND…according to the Elias Sports Bureau, only two teams in the modern era have had a better run differential than the Cubs through nine games — the 1905 Giants and 1999 Indians. Both were plus-44. The Cubs are plus-43 through nine. And this doesn’t warrant an ESPN The Magazine cover? Really?
I realize it’s a long season, and we’re only heading into the third week. A lot can happen, I know. But it’s been a lot of nothing happening for over a hundred years, for the Cubs. So how is it that when the perennial door mat of the National League comes outta the gate like the friggin’ Tasmanian Devil, we get no nod from ESPN? You call that journalism? I call it pinheadism, my friend. I don’t give a crap that the NFL draft is around the corner. It happens every stinkin’ year. Like clock work. The Cubs going 8-1 outta the first 9? That hasn’t happened since Neil Armstrong made footprints on the moon. You wanna see a giant leap for mankind? Wait and see what happens if my Cubbies win the Series, my friend.
Hey, ESPN The Magazine…Bite me.
Unless you’re from another planet (Mets fans, I’m talking to you), you understand that the Cubs have a pretty friggin’ good chance of making the Series this season. We’ve lost Schwarber to a freak accident which ain’t good, but still, outta the billions and billions of stars out there I’m thinking there’s only one or two that are out of alignment. I’d almost be willing to say it’s our destiny to win the last game of the playoffs this year. Almost.
There’s still this very small but nagging thing in the back of my head, though. It’s like when you’re eatin’ a PB&J sammy and you get a raspberry seed stuck between your teeth. It’s delicious, but you can’t fully enjoy it cuz of that stupid seed. And you can’t get it out. It drives me friggin’ nuts. It’s Bartman. I know, I know, there was no sign of him last year, but I can just see him lurking in the shadows … with his mitt.
The missus says I’m like a dog with a bone with this Bartman thing, and that I’m cuttin’ years off my life by letting it stew for so long. She’s right, I know. But then, if the fully loaded barge of encased meat products I’ve eaten, and that cheese sauce on the ball park nachos (it looks like it’s radio active or something) haven’t corked up the old arteries yet, I think I can handle a few more years of pointing the finger at Bartman. I’ll get over it one day. Maybe. But for now, keep your eyes peeled. And if you do see him, please give him the official Bartman Welcome.