I’m 60 years old. I’ve been a Cubs fan, literally, for as long as I can remember. My earliest recollections are from after school. I was young, certainly not more than 10 years old, standing in front of the television, doing my best impersonation of Pat Pieper, the old Public Address announcer at Wrigley Field, as he told the crowd who the next batter would be and I followed my version of the introductions with a live-action reenactment of each swing; Kessinger, Beckert, Williams, Banks, Santo, and on down the line-up. Looking back, I’m sure my Mom would have thought her young son had lost his mind. Except for the fact that I learned my love of the Cubs from both Mom and Dad. She probably thought my actions were perfectly logical.
There’s just something about baseball, you know? I mean I love the Bears, and I’ve been a big fan of the Bulls and the Blackhawks since back in the 1970’s too. But it’s different with baseball. There’s just something about the game that endears it to me. Far better writers than I, have waxed poetic about baseball’s romanticism, the soul of baseball, for generations. I’m not going to try here.
I lived and died with the 1969 team, never believing, (I was too young to grasp things like mathematical elimination then, so I truly held on, like a condemned man picking at every scrap of his last meal) until the last day of the season that the Cubs were not, in fact, going to the World Series.
That was most likely the first time I said “wait till next year” a phrase which had become synonymous with the Cubs long ago.
It wasn’t the last time, not by a long shot.
I celebrated when Tribune Company bought the team back in the 1980’s. Surely their financial resources would bring success to the team, I thought. And there was promise, brought by Dallas Green and Jim Frey and Don Zimmer and some really good teams they assembled and coached back then. I remember vividly, the joy of watching the Cubs clinch a playoff spot after Rick Sutcliffe’s gem in Pittsburgh. This, I thought, this is what it feels like! This is wonderful! And then, the NLCS against the Padres brought me back to earth. Wait till next year! From that magical season to 2008 the Cubs made the postseason six times in total, a number that pales in comparison to successful franchises. As a Cubs fan, it was the most successful run of my lifetime. Or my parents lifetime.
And then, in 2009, the Ricketts Family bought the Cubs.
Everything was seashells and balloons as family frontman Tom took to the airwaves and described how he came to love the team and how much it meant to him to bring a winner to the north side of Chicago. And I was all in.
Sure I heard and read things about the family’s political leanings which, except for Laura Ricketts, are polar opposite from mine. I was able to remove them from my fandom. This was baseball after all. It was different. Somehow.
I couldn’t believe it when Theo and Jed came on board, followed by Joe Maddon. As I watched the core of the team grow into actual bona fide stars, I felt the same feelings I had back in 69 and 84 and most other years the Cubs made the postseason. But all the previous years had firmly embedded in me a feeling of impending doom. And despite my best efforts, 2016 did nothing to dispel them. That was a wonderful team, powering through the first half of the season like no Cubs team I’d seen. And then, they brought in Aroldis Chapman. The same season he served his 30 game suspension from MLB for domestic abuse.
And I chose to look the other way. And I have to admit, I felt a little dirty for my fandom.
That fall, in what may well be the greatest sports-related moment of my life, the Cubs, my Cubs, won the World Series. I got goosebumps just writing that. Over two years removed from the event.
Last night I read about the emails written by Joe Ricketts as revealed by Splinter and I feel like the camel’s back may have finally met the last straw. Here’s the deal; I wish the family would release the funds to sign Bryce Harper, Manny Machado, and as many other free agent as needed to increase the odds of this team winning as many World Series’ as possible. However, I am willing to (grudgingly) concede that the family has every right to make as much money as the cash cow at Clark and Addison will deliver. You guys want to buy whatever part of Wrigleyville you don’t own already, that’s cool. If dumping generational wealth on someone not named Ricketts gets in the way of your doing those things, so be it. As the old saying goes; it’s your bat and your ball, you get to make the rules.
But I don’t have to like those rules. Truth be told, I haven’t been to a game in years. It’s not like the family will miss all the revenue I generated for them. But at least I’ll no longer feel the need to take a shower after I watch a game. It’s actually gotten to the point where I don’t know if I can tune in to a game without thinking about the hate-filled rhetoric a majority of the family embraces. That, friends, is a gut punch to my baseball sensibilities.
Hate is a strong word. I really try hard not to use it. But I hate the fact that I feel like I have to make this choice.
The more I think about this, the more I wonder what sap made a Faustian bargain to bring the Cubs a title, only to have fans endure X number of years of bile flowing from the mouths, and computers, of the family in charge. I’ll say this much for the White Sox, Chairman Reinsdorf may well support every statement ever made by Joe, Pete, or Todd Ricketts. But I don’t know because he keeps his opinions to himself, best I can tell. There’s something be said for that.
Peace.