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Well,
the 2005 Major League Baseball season has
finally gotten underway, which means its
time to pick open an old scab as I and the
rest of my fellow Chicago Cub fans wait
for the inevitable swoon, disaster, and
overall suckitude that we've grown
accustomed to over the years that leaves
us, once again, with nothing to do in
October.
Every
once and awhile, though, they'll surprise
us with a flash of brilliance amongst all
that mediocrity. I am, of course, talking
about their improbable playoff run in
2003. They won their division, beat the
dreaded Braves in the NLDS 3-2, and were
up three games to two on the Marlins,
heading back to Chicago for Games 6 &
7.
I
was at home, sitting on the floor of my
living room, inching closer and closer to
the TV with every out recorded during Game
6 of the NLCS. The Cubs were five outs --
five #@*%ing outs -- from the World Series
when Mark Prior threw a pitch that was
fouled off down the left field line; a
gentle pop fly that floated toward the
stands where self-proclaimed uber-fan
Steve Bartman reached for the ball and
knocked it away from Moises Alou. Now. I
don't care what anyone else says, I've
seen the replay a thousand times, Alou
would have caught the damned ball if
Bartman hadn't gotten in the way. He was
right there. If Alou had made the out --
would the Cubs have won? Well, we'll never
know because he didn't. Some wonder why
Alou got so mad after that. I know. I can
tell you why. About two weeks before,
against the Brewers, with the division
still up for grabs with Astros, another
foul ball went down the same line and in
damned near the exact same spot, another
fan interfered preventing Alou from making
an out.
When
the ball fell away from Alou that night in
the NLCS, I shut my eyes and said
"Oh, no!" I knew. We all
knew. And don't talk to me about
curses. I don't believe in curses. But I
do believe in the psychology of
self-fulfilling prophecies. If you believe
you're cursed, then you're cursed. And the
Cubs have had almost 100 years of negative
reinforcement that only feeds that beast.
After
that, the wheels fell off and the Florida
Party-Poopers rallied for eight runs --
eight #@*%ing runs, and I, along with all
my fellow Cubs fans, knew that a Game 7
loss was not only probable but inevitable.
When that disastrous inning concluded, I
was so enraged that I ejected the tape out
of the VCR -- the one that two outs before
I had hoped to keep forever marking this
momentous occasion (it
only happens once every 50 years for
chrissakes), and in a childish fit
of anger and adrenaline I snapped the
cassette tape in half.
Think
about that for a second. Go over to your
shelf and grab any old VHS tape. Now, take
it with both your hands and try to break
it. Yup, that's how mad I was. It's
embarrassing and a little scary what I did
to that poor defenseless tape. It was now
junk but I decided to keep it, and hung it
on the wall for awhile, the magnetic tape
holding the two broken pieces together; an
abstract piece of art that I call
"Five Outs Away".
It's
easy to say "Wait until next
year" in June, like we usually do,
but it really stomps on your guts to say
in it mid-October with the promised land
so close and yet so far away.
Such
is the life of a Cubs fan. And a lot of
people think we're morons, idiots and
losers. Fine; whatever turns your crank.
Why
do we do it? Why do we keep coming back?
And I'm not just talking about the Cubs
but any team or franchise with no hope of
winning, or tease you from year to year --
always taking you to the brink of success
-- only to break your heart again and
again? Part of the answer to that can be
found in a movie called Bleacher
Bums.
Bleacher
Bums
started out as a play written and
performed by Chicago's Organic Theater
Company in the mid-1970's that boasted
performers such as Dennis Franz and Joe
Mantegna who helped write it. PBS filmed
the production in '79, but your best bet
is to catch Showtime's 2002 made
for TV remake.
The
story revolves around a group of people
who congregate in the cheaper bleacher
seats behind the outfield of Lakeview Park
to watch the thinly disguised, but still
perennial losers, the Chicago Bruins take
on their hated rivals from St. Louis.
Major League Baseball would not endorse
the film or allow them to use any of their
teams and trademarks due to the nature of
all the gambling going on between the
characters, but, make no mistake about it,
it's the Cubs vs. the Cardinals.
This
diverse group of people don't know each
other outside the ballpark, but inside,
they buy each other beers and hot dogs,
and are constantly wagering on anything
and everything happening on and off the
field.
There's
the father (Peter Riegert)
trying to reconcile with his son (Jeff
Geddis) over career decisions; a
husband and wife (Wayne Knight and
Mary Walsh) who constantly bicker
over money lost on foolish bets; a seedy
gambler (Brad Garret) who
always bets against the Bruins because
it's easy money; a nerdy scorekeeper (Hal
Sparks) tries to bet with the big
boys and gets buried; while a beautiful
young woman (Sarain Boylan)
flaunts her, well, talents, hoping to
catch the eye of some producer during a
crowd shot. And then there's Greg (Matt
Craven), a blind fan who
"sees" things better than anyone
else. (There's
also a lunatic fan around the fringes
who's always just one step ahead of
security.)
All
these subplots are standard fair and
border on the mundane. The characters are
paper thin but the cast carries it well.
If you're not afflicted with the same
fan-based psychosis as the characters are,
this movie probably won't do a lot for
you. The origins of Bleacher
Bums
as a stage play are pretty obvious and the
film is very static. The simulated
baseball game is pretty laughable as their
CGI effects never quite jive. But all of
that is secondary, though, to two
important scenes: What really struck me
was the conversation between the two old
guys (Charles Durning and Maury
Chaykin) who run the hand-operated
scoreboard about keeping history in
perspective. And then there's the
sage-like Greg's final speech on why we
keep coming back, and why we we should bet
on the Bruins tomorrow, even though they
let us down, again, today.
Greg's
philosophical approach was a very
cathartic experience for me when I
stumbled upon this film not long after
that inevitable Game 7 loss, and helped me
get things back in perspective:
When
the Cubs won their division, on the second
to last day of the season that year, and
the post-season loomed -- with the sting
of getting swept by the Braves in '98
still lingering -- my battle cry was "Cub
Dignity!", a wish that, at the
least, we wouldn't get swept again. "Give
me one win," I said. They did,
and then I got greedy. And with that
collection of Molotov cocktails that they
had in the bullpen that year -- the simple
fact that they went as far as they did
needed to be celebrated; not condemned as
another failure.
I'll
admit I was pretty peeved at Bartman that
night, and I've got a very
passive/aggressive thing going with him.
Some days, I want to kill him. Others, I
want to give him a hug and tell him it's
OK. I worry about the guy. Seriously.
We're not talking about fifteen minutes of
fame, here. We're talking about life-long
infamy, where he'll be brought up every
post-season if, by some miracle, the Cubs
qualify again and, god forbid, win The
World Series.
The
sobering fact is, and history will back me
up on this, it may not happen in my
lifetime -- or his. Think about carrying
that kind of baggage around for awhile.
Yeah, I think I'll cut the guy some more
slack.
Then
again, it may happen this year. But I
doubt it. Though they might. Arrgggh!
Regardless, I'll still root my Cubs on,
strong in the belief that when it finally
-- FINALLY -- does happen, I'll be there
to see it and it will be very sweet
indeed. I mean, the Red Sox finally won,
right? So hope springs eternal, and, as a
Cubs fan, sometimes that's all we got.
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