After Tinker and Evers…

By Stuart Shea

It’s been 100 years,
Since we’ve had the last dance.
After Tinker and Evers,
We had no Chance.

Gabby was silent and
Sosa splintered, corked like his bat,
Imagine that!
Santo, Jenkins, Billy, Ernie, Hack…
No series, no deposit, no return,
No going back.
100 years.
Even the great Cavaretta caved before the “curse.”
All the tears,
All the bad to worse, even before Michael Wuertz.

It is no curse of goat, owner, or drug,
No virus or flu bug,
But rather an indictment of all things Chicago,
Our own luck, our character, our fate.
Our go-go no-show ego.

47th St. to downtown,
North side to Oak Park,
Chatham, Maxwell Street.
(Remember that?)
Our culture is picked, chopped, and reaped by those in London, New York, Ibiza, Amsterdam, just like at each harvest time, when our baseball hopes disappear.

Our writers ignored, ripped off, marginalized, and shunted,
House music stolen and bastardized,
The blues Anglicized,
Our schools vandalized,
Lottery money wasted and schools go begging,
Our leaders prostituted before mobsters, construction racketeers, the hospitality industry.
We are the breadbasket of America, yet many go hungry.

Tonight, all we ask is a damn World Series.
All we want is a fair shake from God,
From baseball.
That’s all.
But the fiefdom of the game has screwed us.

Peter Ueberroth,
Commissioner en route to Presidency,
Moved our third home game to San Diego in ’84,
Licking the feet of NBC, the television robber barons.

Well, I haven’t forgotten, you lying scoundrel.
Bully. King of Creeps, factotum for self-anointed kings.
With your ambition for greater things,
Big business cudgel,
Apologist.
Forced lights on us in ’88, with
Blackmail to fans and bribes to local government,

And we were so innocent back then
To think it was just a simple question of right or wrong.
Not for long.
As not to see that it was no longer our game,
If indeed if it ever was.
Free market for owners, free agency for players,
Keep moving, folks,
Nothing free here.

So our heroes, our bought and rented men
Play for glory, applause, salary,
Because it’s their job.

Sure, they wear Chicago hats,
But they don’t live here.
Not like in the old days when players would drink with fans at Ray’s,
Dick Selma buying the house a round,
Ron Santo living off Berteau Avenue,
Glenn Beckert, too,
Ernie and Billy commuting from Chatham.
Even Dave Martinez lived in Roselle.
So what the hell.

Once again, our resources—our attention, our time, our intention, our good will, our money—go out of town.

We root, root, root not for our heroes,
But for ourselves, our egos,
Our own meager sense of worth,
Which we think will be conferred onto us by
Rich guys in pinstripe suits
Beating other rich guys in pinstripe suits,
Just like at the Stock Exchange.

Posted 10/8/07. 

Mister Cub’s Autograph

by Sid Yiddish

Middle of the eighth,
Dad’s hands are wet, but not from sweat
He’s just returned from the toilet near the souvenir stand in the middle of the inside of Wrigley Field, with a wet scorecard and he says, “Guess who I met in the bathroom, son? Your hero, Ernie Banks!”

Me, eyes wide open, gulping breath and asking, “Really?”

Sure enough, Dad shows me the program with Ernie Bank’s signature, that looks a little like Dad’s own handwriting, but then again as a young boy aged seven-and-a-half in that late summer of 1969 when the Chicago Cubs were in first place, you wouldn’t seem to have cared where it came from, just as long as you could impress your playmates that you lucked out in getting Mister Cub’s autograph and you’d be the envy of every kid on the block.

As the years passed and I grew up, Dad’s story changed again and again; different inning and different Wrigley Field bathroom locale, but always Mister Cub’s autograph was there

Never lie to a child, I’ve heard some say, but my Dad did, so do I blame him that he wanted to please me, after I got crushed in the great onslaught of autograph seekers near the Cubs dugout and came back to the box seats with the saddest of faces?

Yes, I do.

He could have at least stuck to the same story.

Posted 10/1/07. 

These are a Few of My Favorite Things

by Sandy Marshall

What’s your favorite food?
What’s your favorite color?
Who’s your favorite player?
Mine’s Tommy Herr.

Who’s from Pennsylvania?
Who likes to play Second?
Who’s an All Star?
I bet it’s Tom Herr.

Who passed the torch?
The pro baseball torch?
Following footsteps…
His Dad is Tom Herr.

Who’s a Cardinal, Met, Twin,
And a Philly for sure?
Who’s the Giant of All?
You know it’s Tom Herr!

Posted 9/21/07 

1969: Ron Santo Clicked His Heels

by John J. Quirk

“But with the Cubs, no matter what they do, it’s seldom enough.
Wait ‘til next year is here again in August.”
By Mike Kiley, Chicago Sun-Times, August 22, 2005.

Ernie Banks hit another home run.
Billy Williams hit another double.
Ferguson Jenkins pitched another shutout.
At the hot corner, Ron Santo had snagged another smash down the third base line.
Later, at the end of the game, Santo excitedly clicked his heels.
And yet, at the conclusion of a long season, the pennant was lost.

Standing Oh

by Sandy Marshall

A handspring
A handspring
A double backflip,
That’s Ozzie Smith for ya,
Now watch the hits rip!

St. Louis
St. Louis
A loyal shortstop,
That’s Ozzie Smith for ya,
He’ll land at the top!

Our favorite
Our favorite
Our regular guy,
That’s Ozzie Smith for ya,
Monsieur RBI!

A triple
A triple
A rock & roll riff,
That’s Ozzie Smith for ya,
He’ll steal in a jif!

Posted 9/12/07