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The End?

By Stuart Shea

The Cubs are the best team in baseball.
So good that your toes may curl.
I’m worried that we may be approaching the end of the world.

A black man may become president.
No matter what sludge Repubs hurl.
I’m worried that we may be approaching the end of the world.

The hole in the ozone layer is wide–
With enough space to fit Terry Forster inside
Our societies reek of fratricide
While starving untold millions have died.

Just like in Kinsella’s great story,
Those in control don’t know what to do.
All I know is that when we all go
We prob’ly won’t bleed Cubbie blue.

 

Posted 8/15/08 

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Them Versus Dem

by Sid Yiddish
Well, the Sox fans hate the Cubs fans,
And the Cubs fans hate the Sox fans,
Yet, both teams are doing so very well.
So why, why do the fans give each other hell?
It couldn’t be a Northside versus Southside stigma, now could it?

Still, let’s get one thing straight:
There are vital differences between them,

And it all boils down to this…

White collar versus blue collar,
Upper management versus the union,
Family versus The Family,
Particular versus pride,
The SUV versus the family van,
Pencil-neck versus redneck,
The prize trophy wife versus the missus,
The hunks versus the hits,
The stunts versus the stats,
The goat versus the gut.

But it’s the Sox fans who can take the heat, versus the Cub fans who will try to sell you the entire kitchen.

Posted 8/11/08 

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Your Baseball Days

By Stuart Shea

When was the last time you ran barefoot in the grass?
When was the last time you even threw a baseball?

Roll your fingers over the seams.
Try a fingertip knuckleball.
Pound your glove.

Think of your baseball days, before OPS and Direct TV
When you’d play all day until the sun went down
And even then you’d switch to ‘running bases,’ tossing the ball under the misty summer lamplight.
While other kids ran
And millions of bugs headed toward the bright.
And when everyone goes in for the night,
See if the Cubs game is still on.

They’re in Pittsburgh, blowing another lead in the ninth.
Jack Brickhouse is moaning. The bullpen crumbles.
And when it’s all over, and you’re exhausted with frustration
At Dave LaRoche and Oscar Zamora,
You realize there’s another game tomorrow, both for you and the big boys.

You knew NOTHING of the world at 12. But you knew baseball, and that’s what counted.
The game was an escape, a separate world with its own set of rules, a prism through which to look at your existence.
Organized rules, hope, glory, sunshine, and action.
Nothing like your own, seemingly arbitrary, life.
Which is why you needed it.

You’ll always need it to bring you back to joy, to freedom, to your own self.
For that skinny 12-year-old just begging for acceptance, begging to just be good enough at something.
And the game gave you hope.
So turn off the TV, the computer, the instant updates on your device
And play catch.
Just play catch.

It’s nice.

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Baseball Lightning

by James Finn Garner

It won’t be for his arm or savvy
Or the hits he gave up left and right.
What we’ll remember ’bout Geremi Gonzales
Is the way he would light up the night.

Posted in memory 7/21/08 

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The Wave Land, Part II

by Thomas Dyja

While the Chicago Cubs are enjoying a terrific year in 2008, for generations they have embodied dashed hopes and weary resignation. To honor those Cub fans of the last century who perished without seeing their team in the World Series, we present this elegy set in the 1980s from award-winning novelist Thomas Dyja.

II. A Game (More or Less)

The bench we sat on, like a worn out bar,
Peeled in the bleachers, where the scoreboard,
Held up by standards wrought of Gary steel, and
From which a pale scorekeeper peeped out
(Another hid his paunch behind the clock)
Posted the score of seven games—Candlestick
Reflecting the time upon the coast—as
The zeroes next to “Cubs” rose to meet defeat
From Cardinal runs poured in rich profusion.
…yet there Jack Brickhouse
Filled all the TV’s with inviolable voice
And still he cried, and still the outfielders pursued,
“Hey Hey” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were set in their green seats; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, jeering the team below.
Footsteps shuffled on the basepaths.
Over DeJesus, far to his left, Mitterwald’s throws
Spread out in fiery points
Rolled into centerfield, then would be savagely booed.

“The Baron is bad today. Yes, bad. Stay with the pitch!
“Hit to left. Why can’t Murcer hit to left? Hit.
“What’s Wallis waiting for? Why’s he taking? Why?
“I’ll never know why they always take. Swing!

Joe thinks we need a late rally
But I just want to go home.

“What is the score?”
The Cubs are down by four.
“What is the score now? What is the wind doing?”
Nothing again nothing.

“Can’t
“They hit anything? Can’t they field anything? Do you remember
“ ’69?”

I remember
Cardenal’s eyelids stuck to his eyes.
“Can you play, or not? Is it something Lockman said?”
But
O O O O Clines overslid the bag—
Tried for too many
A win for Denny
“What shall we do now? What shall we do?”
“We shall go out for a beef, and have a beer
“With our heads down low. What shall we do to-morrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
The game starts at one-thirty.
And if it rains, a pass at the door.
And we shall see a game, more or less,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for the Cubs to maybe score.

Posted 7/16/08