Yes, I will admit it. I’m a Cubs fan. They’ve woven themselves into the fabric of my life, from childhood afternoons sprawled in front of the TV, awed by Sandberg’s defense, to ditching a college research project downtown to purchase a bleacher seat. Last year I bought my son his first Cubs cap from a vendor in Wrigley. I brought it home and placed it on his head. His immediate reaction (only two years old, but somehow filled with piss and vinegar) was to swipe the cap off his head, and throw it over his shoulder. Maybe I should have took this as an omen, or perhaps raise my expectations of my son’s intuition. Being a Cubs fan is toxic.
I think I did learn a lesson from my son. This season for the first time in years, I didn’t buy tickets for any Cubs games. I didn’t spend any sunny afternoons at Wrigley, wolfing down overpriced beer and hotdogs. While I still listened to games on the radio, I didn’t give them a single dollar of my money. And I won’t, not until they deserve it.