Hey there, pocket squares. Have you seen the “what not to wear” fashion fart from joesportsfan.com? Once again, Cardinals fans are livin’ up to my expectations. In true, sniveling, diaper-wearin’, I-didn’t-get-what-I-want-so-I’m-gonna-protest political fashion, good ol’ Joe is sellin’ a t-shirt with a Cubs-like logo and “Not my World Series champions” on it.
“Not my World Series champions?”
Is there another World Series somewhere with another champion? Last time I checked, the Fall Classic was it, my friend. Maybe there’s one on another planet or somethin’. Like the planet Uranus … where Cards fans rule, cuz it was named after ’em.
Now, I could try to write this pinheaded thinking off to a study which showed that people get more stupid in a crowd. Or another one suggesting that society in general is getting “stupider.” (I don’t even think “stupider” is a word … so maybe it’s true.) The problem with both of those is that Cubs fans are part of American society. AND we form crowds. Big ones. Really, really big-ass crowds. In fact over five million of us gathered to celebrate the Cubs’ 2016 World Series championship, making it the 7th largest gathering in the history of history.
How many fans gathered to commemorate the last Cards championship? I have no friggin’ clue, but I can tell you it wasn’t five million, my friend. I am, however, willing to concede that whatever the headcount it was surely the largest gathering of pinheads in the history of the world. Congratulations. Have a lollipop.
Anyway, go to Joe Sports Fan and take a look at that friggin’ shirt! Any self-respecting Cards fan would rather take a nap with a scorned Lorena Bobbitt and a four-foot machete than strut around with a bastardized Cubs logo on his chest. I mean, the Cubs-Cards thing is baseball’s version of the Hatfields and McCoys, right? They hate us; we hate them. So wearin’ your arch enemy’s colors is a weird way of showin’ whose side your on.
You’ll never ever ever never see a Cubs fan wearin’ a Cards logo, I guarantee you. Not and live to tell about it. Quite the opposite, my friend. For example: You know those urinal cookie thingies? Well, down at the plant we got a bunch made with Cards logos on ’em. THAT’S what Cubs fans do with Cards logos. Great for target practice.
I’d also like to point out the copy that Joe Sports Fan writes about the shirt. It reads, “We are strong. We are united. We are clothed in a delicious blend of cotton and polyester sure to make friends jealous on Opening Day as the 11-time World Champion St. Louis Cardinals take the field against a team that hasn’t won one in over a century. Sad!” Since the Cubs are currently sittin’ on the trophy, I’d say if anything is “sad” it’s that Joe Sports Fan can’t count to 1. Typical.
So … while St Louis fans are busy protesting one of the greatest sports stories in a hundred years, the Cubs are quietly goin’ about the business of repeatin’ as Series champs, just like they did in 1907 and ’08 — something the Cards have never done.
Greetings and salutations from the glow of the cheap seats, fellow Cubs fanatics, where I still bask in the Cubbie blue afterglow of a World Series championship. It’s like sex … only it smells like leather, cheesy fries and beer. Actually, that would be sex for Cardinals fans. But I digress.
One might think winning the last game of the playoffs would take the edge off the Schlombowksi razor. And one would be correct. Right up until Rob Womanfred poked his head outta the backside of his jackass.
That’s right, sports fans. Manfred is back at it — attacking the perfection of baseball by tryin’ to institute pinheadian rule changes to “speed up the game.” Thankfully, just one of his brain farts snuck through this season, leaving Robby Boy foaming at the mouth in frustration with the MLBPA.
This new rule is a perfect illustration of just how friggin’ constipated Manfred’s whole speed-up-the-game movement is. According to ESPN’s Howard Bryant, Major League Baseball plans to use a dugout signal in place of issuing four balls for a intentional walk this season. If you look at the numbers you’ll see that eliminating the 60 seconds saved by not actually, physically throwin’ 4 balls is like takin’ a bucket of water outta Lake Michigan. If the average game is 3 hours long, that 60 seconds represents 1/2 of 1% of the time it takes to play it. Wow! Brilliant move, Baseball. I can only imagine how the Gross National Product is gonna soar with all that extra time that won’t be wastin’ on a ballgame. Friggin’ genius.
This whole thing reminds me a Star Trek episode, appropriately titled, “A Taste of Armageddon.” During this episode the crew of the Enterprise visits a planet whose people fight a computer-simulated war against a neighboring planet. Even though the war is just pretend, the citizens of each planet have to submit to real executions inside “disintegration booths” to meet the casualty counts of the simulated attacks.
Well, this walkin’ guys without walkin’ guys is the same kinda thing.
It’s complete donkey doo. It doesn’t speed the game up (as if that needed to be done anyway) in any noticeable way, and it robs fans of the chance … the possibility … the anticipation that some yay-hoo pitcher with the control of a young Randy Johnson tosses one of his pitches to the backstop. Pathetic.
If you really wanna improve the game of baseball, consider gettin’ Manfred together with one of those disintegration booth thingies.
A snake. A rat. A cockroach. And anything that one might find growing in the dank corners of a gas station bathroom. These are things that should hold a higher place among men than the one, the only — the ever-lovin’ lulu of dastardly, scum-sucking, hemorrhoid-inducing jack wagons — the traitor. In this case, Dexter Fowler.
That’s right, snowballs, this morning the St. Louis Cardinals (the devil’s agents among the living) announced that they’d inked a deal with our former leadoff hitter to the tune of $82.5 million for 5 years. Chaaaaaaaaaaaa-ching. The guy is gettin’ a gargantuan payday. Does he deserve it? Well, let’s see … Did he cure cancer? Did he stop the climate from changin’? Did he bring me that human ice cream cone, Scarlett Johansson? No, no and, sadly, no. But this is baseball. Nobody deserves what they get paid. If you accept that then, yeah, Fowler should get a few years and more for each one. But that’s not the real story here.
The real headline is ripped from some stupid history book Sister Demarus made me read in 8th grade, and recounted the story of Benedict Arnold — a guy who fought heroically for the Continental Army (that’s our side, pinwheels). At some point, though, he started providin’ the British with American troop locations and, as the commander of West Point, began weakening the fort’s defenses, draining its supplies and craftin’ a surrender plot right underneath George Washington’s nose. Really … how different is Fowler than Arnold? Yeah, sure … they don’t look alike, they live in totally different times, and one was a soldier and the other a centerfielder. On the surface, it doesn’t seem like they were stamped outta the same mold. But they SMELL exactly the same, my friend. And it’s this odoriferous scent of Turn Coat No. 5 that makes Fowler the Benedict Arnold of the Chicago Cubs.
First, I gotta question the decision makin’ power of a guy who snubs a $17.2 million qualifying offer from the current World Series Champion — a team that stands to compete for the same hardware for the next few years. That one thing, all by itself, makes me think the guy had somethin’ in the works — even if it was just in his own mind — while still in the throes of last season. Either that or he needs an intravenous drip of Prevagen.
“I feel like this team has a chance to win a World Series,” Fowler said. “That was a big part in coming [to St Louis], because winning is addictive.” Is that right, Mr Cockroach? What the F do you call winning the World Series? Look, you don’t have to be Einstein to read between those lines, pal. If winning was what mattered to F (yeah, I’m gonna call him F from now on, and you can make your own mind up on what I mean by that) then why jump from the best team in baseball, run by the smartest guy (Theo) and the best field manager (Joe)? What F really means is that makin’ more money than God is addictive. If he’d been tendered an $83 million/5 year offer from the Wenatchee Valley Cherry Bombs girls softball team, he’d be gettin’ his fix in eastern Washington.
Second, and far far worse … we’re talkin’ the Cardinals. Not the Mariners, not the Mets, not the Marlins. The friggin’ Cardinals! The dead-on metaphoricalicious equivalent of the British. They even have the same ugly friggin’ color scheme uniforms, pallie. Coincidence? I think NOT! Goin’ to a team in the same division, not to mention our most hated arch rival since the beginning of baseball time, is a sure sign that Fowler is tryin’ to inflict as much damage to the Cubs as possible. He might as well have marched into Theo’s office and dropped the kids off on his desk.
To St. Louis I say this: Study your history, dirt bags. Benedict Arnold eventually began openly fighting for the British. And though they paid him well, they never really trusted him. I mean, you can’t trust someone that’s so easily willing to betray somebody else. He’s in your house now, lurking in the shadows. Good luck with that. You’re gonna need it when you do battle with the Cubs.
When I was a kid, my dad used to take my brothers and me to Cubs games. Not all the time, but once in a while. Even took my sister once, but she fell asleep on his lap which meant he couldn’t get up and cheer when circumstances called for it. Oh yeah … that was the Cubs of the 1970s — no need to stand and cheer.
Goin’ to Wrigley was one of my favorite things as a kid. Still is. There’s nothin’ like that first glimpse of the impossibly green grass, the perfection of the infield carved from it, and the billowing clouds pushin’ across Chicago’s summer sky. But what sticks in my mind most from those trips to Wrigley was how tall everybody was. Walkin’ in the crowd was like bein’ in a forest of human redwoods. Even in our seats I couldn’t see a thing unless everyone was sittin’ down and I was up on my knees. That’s how I remember watchin’ most games at Wrigley. Makes my ACL swell up just thinkin’ about it.
My dad loved baseball. And more than that, he loved the Cubs. April was the most optimistic month in the Schlombowski household, but there was always a measure of it, no matter how far outta first the Cubs fell. “A 10-game win streak starts today, Joe,” he’d say as he was leavin’ for work. And when he’d get home, it’d be “See, I told ya,” or “I meant tomorrow,” depending on what the Cubs did that day. When they were on the road, Dad would haul our crappy, old black-and-white TV out on the stoop to escape the suffocating heat in our apartment, and watch the games with our neighbor, Mr. Kowalski. They’d smoke cigars and listen to Fergie Jenkins, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and Ron Santo try as they might to carry a team that was neck-deep in billy goat curse. The smoke seemed sweet, and curled up through the screen on the window of the room my brothers and I shared. I’d fall asleep to the sound of Jack Brickhouse or Vince Lloyd, the muffled conversation, and my dad’s occasionally animated and always colorful commentary on whatever the Cubs were doin’, and whoever was doin’ it to ’em.
To me, the quintessential ($5 word score!) Cubs fan was long ago defined by the intersection of my father and the Chicago Cubs. At Wrigley, I’d look up at him from my seat and see a guy who loved the experience of just being there much more than the game’s outcome. It was about the theater of the sport — its ebb and flow, the glacial pace interrupted by periodic moments of volcanic excitement. My father saw himself as a player in this nine-act play —the jester, if you will — the guy in the stands who has people three sections away laughin’ their asses off, and wishing they had the wit and courage to sling crap at the opposition like he did. You know, the kind of icy yet good-natured barbs that sting, but make one smile at the same time. If they gave a gold glove for that, my dad would have a trophy case full of ’em, and a couple of boxes in the garage for the ones that wouldn’t fit.
Dad wouldn’t pull punches if the Cubs needed a wake up call, either. “That’s part of bein’ a good fan,” he’d say. He taught me that you gotta hold the Cubs’ spikes to the fire when they F-up. And they do F-up. Two words: Greg Maddux. I learned that if you blindly defend a player’s on- and off-field brain farts, or an ownership that’s smothered in lame sauce, or hemorrhoid-inducing front office moves that make you lose your will to live, you’re not a real fan. You’re a “homer.” You’re like Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper, the guys that do radio for San Francisco — two guys that wouldn’t say anything negative about a Giants player if he stole his grandmother’s life savings and blew it at the track. You could pour their broadcasts over your friggin’ pancakes, my friend. Real fans, Dad taught me, were loyal as a golden retriever, but didn’t act like public defenders when the Cubs play was criminally bad.
Don’t get me wrong. Except for my mom and us kids, my dad loved the Cubs more than anything. Sometimes bowling night would take the pole position, but that was in the off-season. Mostly, though, he lived and died with the Cubs, but did it in a rational way. And THAT, my friend, is what separates Cubs fans from all others. We don’t turn into raving phycho killers when the Cubs lose, and we don’t become obnoxious, our-shit-don’t-stink St Louis fans when we win … actin’ like our team is the best thing that ever stepped foot on a diamond … includin’ the ’27 Yankees.
I think it’s been all the years of sleepin’ in the rest of baseball’s garbage that’s given us some perspective. Of course, those decades of ineptitude (another $5 word score) have given us a lotta heartache, too. But you won’t find Cubs fans, even this year, countin’ any chickens just cuz we’re havin’ the best season since 1908. Giants fans, on the other hand? Crimminy … they’ve been sayin’ how 2016 is a lock for their 4th ring in 7 years just cuz it’s an even numbered year. And they been doin’ it since last year. Arrogance anyone? Makes me glad I didn’t grow up in San Francisco, where they serve crap like gluten-free flatbread, strawberry lavender spa water and fried Brussels sprouts with lemon aioli in their ball park. That ain’t baseball food! But that’s cuz those ain’t real baseball fans, either. They’re mostly new money tech geeks goin’ to games cuz it’s a “cool” thing to do, not cuz they grew up with posters of Mays and McCovey plasterin’ their bedroom walls. Me? My room looked like the friggin’ Chicago Cubs wing at Cooperstown, I had baseball cards of every Cubs player since they were known as the Orphans, my glove was an Ernie Banks autographed Rawlings, and Sister Mary Rachel used to yank my Cubs hat off me so I wouldn’t wear it up for communion.
It’s no surprise I turned out this way — with a blue pinstriped soul and a heart covered in ivy. I was brain washed … only it was carried out in a subtle, methodical way as to not be identified with such a negative term. That’s how it works with fathers and sons. It’s gradual — an almost imperceptible indoctrination ($10 word bonus) that takes decades, and from which there is no salvation. It’s passed along from father to son, like your great great grandfather’s pocket watch, only with the Cubs it’s a pocket watch that, until last year, was more like a friggin’ sun dial. No modern digital readout, no stop watch functionality, no Swiss movement. Sentimental, but not workin’ that great. Still, in spite of the Cubs bein’ the Cubs for the past 108 years, stickin’ with ’em has been a source of pride. Of course it’s been a source of frustration, depression and the frequent four-letter word salads, too. Mostly, though, bein’ a Cubs fan is a matter of character — a demonstration of loyalty and brotherhood, perseverance and patience. Anyone can root for the Yankees and their 27 rings, but it takes a special person to follow a team that’s lived in the basement longer than your grade school hockey skates. Can you imagine the Hollywooders in LA stickin’ with the Dodgers on a century-long drought? Not a friggin’ chance. They don’t even stick it out for one game — typically showin’ up late, leavin’ early, and braggin’ about beatin’ the traffic instead of the slapdicks in the other dugout. Pathetic.
Anyway, my father is guilty. Guilty of makin’ me love somethin’ that hasn’t loved me back. Guilty of makin’ me a slave to hope. Guilty of makin’ me go back to a well that’s been as dry as the chalk between third and home. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Why? Because of everything that makes a Cubs fan a Cubs fan — none of which has ever had a damn thing to do with wins or losses. How could it? If followin’ the Cubs was tied to the record you wouldn’t have three million churning through Wrigley’s turnstiles every year. You wouldn’t flip on the radio for a game in Pittsburgh and, based on the crowd noise, swear to Jesus they were playin’ at home. You wouldn’t have 108 years of “wait until next year” cuz the Cubs woulda left years ago for greener infields outside of Chicago.
So, here’s to you, Cubs fans, especially you, Dad, for dyein’ me in the wool. I raise a frosty Old Style to all of you. You make goin’ to Wrigley like sittin’ in my living room with 40,000 of my best friends, and what the hell is better than that? (Except for playin’ hide the sausage with the missus, of course.) Meetin’ one of you, anywhere — like Pauly, one of the faithful I met the other day in Seattle, of all places — is like runnin’ into a long lost friend. Thanks for that. You’re the best. Each and every one of you.
Hey there, corn nuts, Joe “I can’t stand the friggin’ Cardinals” Schlombowski here to remind you that we start a 3 game series against the Redbirds tonight. I bring this to your attention cuz if we broom these cupcakes we claim the Division title for the first time since 2008. I’d call that pretty sweet … but doin’ it against the Cards? Well, that’s more like cotton candy pancakes smothered in whip cream covered Snickers-infused molten chocolate syrup. With an Old Style.
Clinchin’ in St Louis has a much higher calorie count cuz of the long history of discontent between the Cubs and the Cards. It’s like the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s, Ali and Frasier, Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner. Takin’ the title on the Cards’ home turf would have the added benefit of rubbin’ their noses in somethin’. I’ll leave that to your imagination.
Anyhoo … this reminded me of Sosa and McGwire — two guys that, back in 1998, became a microcosm of this long standing rivalry. That was before they became a microcosm of the cheatin’, roided-up jaggoffs who crapped all over the game of baseball. That aside, their chase for the single season dinger record seemed other-worldly at the time, and it probably did a lot to help bring the national pastime back out from the shadow of the players’ strike, which cancelled the 1994 World Series and part of the next season as well. Assholes.
Seriously. How the hell do you strike when every guy in your industry is makin’ mad money for playin’ a game?! That drives me friggin’ bat guano. Of course the owners pretty much brought it on themselves, and much of that can be laid at the feet of Captain Lame with Lame sauce. Uhh, that would be Bug Selig.
I digress. Point is, Sosa and McGwire spent the ’98 season makin’ like NASA with all the crap they put into orbit. It was mind-boggling. All you had to do was look at either one of ’em to know they weren’t do it the way Maris did, but baseball let it go cuz it was puttin’ butts in seats and makin’ players rich beyond Barry Bonds’s wildest dreams. Anyway, they’re still at it in September when McGwire swats number 62 off Steve Trachsel in the fourth inning of a 6-3 Cubs loss. And what does Sammy do? He makes his way in from right field to embrace his home run rival like a couple of horny grizzly bears. Full disclosure: he wasn’t alone. Hell, half the Cubs lineup practically tried to get his autograph as he was trottin’ around the bases like Secretariat. Which brings me back to the Cubs-Cards rivalry. Or in this particular case, love fest. I’m sorry … I totally get what sportsmanship is all about, but puttin’ your arms around a Cardinal oughta get you fined, my friend. Say somethin’ nice at the press conference, send him a bottle of scotch, maybe. Whatever. But a public display of affection for the arch enemy?! Are you friggin’ kidding me? That’s like Montgomery givin’ Romel a big wet kiss after getting his ass kicked in North Africa. I’m talkin’ oil and water here, my friend. No Cubs player should ever betray the rivalry by doin’ anything that could be construed as “fraternizing” with a Cardinals player.
Fraternization is a term defined as “to become like brothers” and undermines the goals and objectives of war, or in this case a ball game. Providing covert aid or even extending cordiality to the enemy is an offense typically prohibited by military codes of conduct. When it comes to the Cubs-Cards rivalry, I think we’re talkin’ about a similar code, and breaking it oughta be subject to some sort of harsh military-like punitive measures. Like pickin’ up all the sun flower seeds in the dugout between innings, or couple weeks of cleanin’ up Wrigley after each game. I’m just sayin’.
McGwire finished the year with 70 round-trippers, while Sosa had 66. In spite of Mac’s juiced performance, the Cards went nowhere. Chicago finished 90–73, earning us a wild card berth, but we were swept by the Braves in the first round. Typical. So, in the end, all that cheatin’ didn’t do a damn thing for either club.
The animosity between us remains intact, though. Should we respect the Cards? Absolutely. They’ve won a helluva lot more Championships than the Cubs have, so they kinda deserve it. Of course that’s just one more reason to hate ’em.
