The Voice of Murphy
2004———–The Boston Red Sox win their first World Series since 1918.
2005———–The Chicago White Sox win their first World Series since 1917.
2006———-The Cardinals win their first series since 1982. (That’s a long time between championships for St.Louis.)
2007———-Boston, again. Now they’re getting greedy.
2008———-100 years ago, the Cubs won their last World Series.
Through the eyes of Cardinal fans, let’s venture into the future for a glimpse of what may happen with the Cubs this year.
It all starts with a bus ride from St. Louis. And after 300 miles, the future begins……
As our cantankerous yellow bus wheezes haltingly into a North Chicago parking lot, we realize our bumpy journey is, at last, ending.
‘Why have they come here?’ a voice questions.
The pilgrimage that began five hours earlier on a brisk Spring Saturday morning is coming to a joyous completion.
‘What is the purpose of this mission?’ is asked.
Each pair of impassioned eyes is now consuming the edifice which has become our Mecca.
‘What is the attraction?’ the voice queries.
We are squirming with anticipation because our motorized cocoon will soon open the door allowing its metamorphosized passengers unfettered deliverance to Wrigley Field.
‘They have come all this way for a game?’
Exiting our transport, we flutter like butterflies, benignly brandishing our scarlet pennants, and broadcasting a semaphoric dispatch of the Cardinal contingent’s advent. Two score and six ‘birds on the bat’ fanatics swagger onto the hallowed grounds, that for nine decades has been the den of the Cubs. However, we have not invaded the lair of the ‘Baby Bruins’ to desecrate this shrine nor to vilify its followers (not withstanding our outspoken disdain for the opposition), but to laud the steadfast perseverance and enigmatic loyalty of its magnanimous disciples.
‘Is there a spell bewitching the thousands who flock here for each game?’
The Cubs haven’t won a World Series since Mordecai ‘Three Finger’ Brown pitched his way past Ty Cobb’s 1908 Detroit Tigers. Not merely iambic lines of verse in a charming poem, Tinker, Evers and Chance were actual flesh and blood ball players that year.
‘The appeal is Cubs baseball?’
Of course, that’s it. It means so much to the faithful, evoking mythical memories of past triumphs. In professional baseball’s incipient era, Chicago was the National League’s premier champion. Pitching ace Al Spalding’s forty-seven victories coupled with the batting prowess of hitting pioneers Cal McVey, Ross Barnes, Cap Anson and Deacon White begat a rich sporting tradition for the small community on Lake Michigan. (General Custer made his ‘Last Stand’ the same year.) The Cubs rode roughshod over the baseball world when Teddy Roosevelt occupied the White House. Even the infamous ‘Black Sox’ could not tarnish the luster of baseball’s golden age. Their saga became another ingredient of the lore.
‘But its been so long ago. Has it been too long?’
Could a team from North Chicago ever again harness the ponderous potency of previous powerhouses?
‘That’s the fascination, isn’t it?’
Will the confoundment end? Will this be the season the Cubs take it all? Will the spark of victory be traced back to this specific April game? Will I be telling my grandchildren years from now that I attended the contest that set in motion the termination of man’s most ignominious tract of fruitlessness? The answer may be just nine innings away.
‘Could a miracle happen here today?’
Tickets in hand, we pass under steel rafters and concrete facades, through a vestibule of snack bars, restrooms and swarming masses ever pressing toward the inner sanctum of this venerated atrium. The distinctive crack of lathe crafted ash colliding with a horsehide covered sphere impell us into a most majestic setting. We enter; the field appears. It is paradise with a grounds crew. The broad panoramic vista rivals any scene from an ‘Ireland, the Emerald Isle’ postcard. The well groomed green grass is complemented by a dust covered clay diamond, highlighted with three white bases. Uniformed players ready themselves for the upcoming proceedings.
‘Is this heaven?’ No, it’s Iowa’s neighbor, Illinois.’
Mesmerized, we could only stand there.
‘Down in front, you birdbrains.’ This was a different voice.
The gruff decree snaps us from our collective rapture. Wearing the caps, shirts and jackets of Fredbird’s favorite color and logo, it doesn’t take an inclinometer to show the natives we’re leaning toward the lads from St. Louis. This breach of local standards provokes a stream of vociferous vocal venom peppered with plenty of depraved pictorial language, as well as sporadic personal rancor. What a great welcome. It’s even better than we expected.
Settling into our ‘red ghetto’, we perceive the babbling hubbub of a jostling throng, who like us, is captivated by this valiant diversion called baseball. Following the National Anthem, the inimitable cry of ‘Play Ball’ inaugurates a sublime ceremonial ritual pitting the hurler against the hitter.
‘Is this the beginning of the end of Cubs frustration?’
The game is underway. Inning follows inning. Like links in a chain, zeroes are strung together on the National League’s only original, remaining hand operated scoreboard. The two rows of zeroes match the ‘OOOOOOO’h's of what has become a unified pro-Cub crowd. What?????…..Sure we’re Redbird fans, but this could be the dawn of a new era.
‘Isn’t that the real underlying reason for this crusade?’
Undaunted by past humiliations, the ecumenical mass, now of single focus, hold its breath each time a visting batter makes contact. The ‘Junior Bears’ pitching is still holding up, and their offense has finally scratched out a lone run. It’s the Cardinals last scheduled at bat, two are out and the intensity level is cranked up to the maximum.
‘Could this finally be the light at the end of the tunnel for the Cubs?’
All eyes, even of those hawking refreshments, are riveted onto the field. Here’s the windup and the pitch.
‘Strike One,’ bellows the umpire.
Everyone’s going wild. A peanut vendor is jumping up and down in the aisle, concentrating more on the game than on his fiduciary responsibilities. Another toss yields another strike. Again the building erupts. To my chagrin, pent up energy within me is demanding food. I ignore the urge.
A foul ball muffles the multitude and five more of the same instill an apprehensive uneasiness. Not twenty feet from me, that peanut guy is milling in place, the freshly roasted aroma of his product tantalizing my hunger pangs. Several more pitches are deflected into the seats; a cloistered hush overwhelms us all. The forced nervous silence is reminiscent of the ominous stillness during a showdown on the streets of the Old West. Likewise, this duel is being played out with nary a sound, the anxious onlookers oppressed by a stifling unnatural disquietude. All noise has now been drained from the place. There is only STONE…STARK…..SILENCE…..……
‘Peanuts!!!!!’ I explode, jumping to my feet. The vendor whirls and fires a bag at me. I duck, mindlessly, shamefully. Behind me an innocent bystander is blasted full force; the life giving legumes splattering to the ground. The pitcher steps off the mound, glaring at me.
Somehow, this senseless event returns to the stands the revelry of a shindig. A staccato clap begins, demanding the strike out. The ecstatic mob is once again inebriated with anticipatory zeal. The victory is at hand. Voices squeal, feet stomp and the heavens shudder. One more strike…….
‘The place is rocking. Will this be the game that the Cubs surpass mediocrity, transcend demagogism and just DO IT !!!! ?????’
The Cardinal hitter doubles off the wall. The next triples him home. Six more hits and ultimately a grand slam mercifully end the Perfectos scoring onslaught. Then the bottom of the ninth is as futile as the previous 99 years. The Cubs will NEVER win a World Series if they play for another millenium.
The voice is right.
‘Cubs baseball is for the birds!’
