The haunt of Octobers of olde,
The field named for Wrigley’s grown cold,
Faint echoes from bats
Of men who wear spats
Who late in the season don’t fold.
This season for Cubbies is toast.
As always, they’re missing the “post”.
There’s curses and theories
Why Cubs won’t host series.
They ought to just give up the ghost.
Each year the Cubs try to remold,
Each year the fan’s hope is fool’s gold,
But millionaire fans
Hatch bankruptcy plans:
The team to a diehard’s been sold.
.
Well known as a comic artist, Hilary Barta also runs the terrific site Limerwrecks, featuring limericks on swamp monsters, film noir, comic books, and pop culture. Its daily content is a must-read.
“Derrek Lee said 2009 is just one of “those years” and believes the Cubs don’t have to make many changes to get back to playoff form. “It could be totally different [in 2010],” the first baseman said.” — Chicago Tribune, 9/8/2009
This season’s been a let-down.
Except for a bad break or two,
We might be in the thick of things
Instead of trailing by 22.
Heaven knows we tried our best.
You can’t blame us guys on the team.
Every day is a titanic struggle,
No matter how blasé we may seem.
You can’t force these things to happen.
You can’t get too low or too high.
I hope the fans can understand
As another season’s drifted by.
Each year around this time,
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the Cubbies’ fade begins,
thoughts of a famous postman
rise up to haunt and amuse me.
Joe Doyle was a man who delivered the mail
in rain and sleet and snow,
and on his route was the Tumble Inn –
a downstate Illinois tavern –
home to all fans of both Northside Nine
and their great crimson rival.
The year ‘69 held a season of fun that
was special and fine for Joe: his team
seemed a lock for the pennant …
until that Miraculous cloud,
like the rainstorms at Woodstock,
rolled darkly across his landscape.
On one infamous day that September –
as I sat in my Kindergarten class
learning of Apollo astronauts, the Aquarian age,
and letters and numbers and shapes –
Joe with his mailbag walked somberly,
I suspect, down Hickory Street toward the bar.
I’ve often wondered what went through
his mind on that hot Indian Summer morn
as he noticed the strangely full parking lot,
the parking meters on the street out front
all paid, the pregnant surprise party silence
lurking behind neon beer signs in the windows.
There’s not much doubt
what came out of his mouth
as he walked in a huff through the door
and into a smiling wall of Cardinal fan faces,
each one full of good jeer.
I’ve been told it sounded something like
“To Hell with ALL of ya!”
as the flung mail fluttered through the air
and fell like scattered bitter tears to the barroom floor –
as he turned his back on fellow fans of the pastime
and walked out the darkling still-open door
before it had yet banged shut.
Twenty-some years later Joe died.
He was honored by Cub fans and Card friends
alike – the Diehard fans more somber, I suspect,
with inklings of dread at sharing his fate:
he’d lived his long life whole and true,
full of joys and sorrows, pleasure and pain,
children and grandchildren, fortune and fame,
without once enjoying a single, solitary, goddamn title.
Yet still, before the casket lid shut,
a familiar blue cap was laid on his chest
and then moved to the top of his head.
Each year around this time
when the “0-for-August” jokes return
and the drive for the pennant kicks up
dust for the Cubs to chew on,
I’m often led to wonder
how many other hats,
with that same old circular C,
rest quietly underground, waiting.
Leading off and batting first,
To start an early rally, it’s
The Abel speedster.
The small weak-batted, fleet-footed speedster.
A BUNT! It’s down, it’s perfectly placed.
He’s on! Look out! The line he’s retraced.
His confident lead betrays his need
To advance himself to scoring position.
Now up it’s Baker.
Two-eighty Baker.
Clutch four hundred with RISPy Baker.
Four balls later it’s first
And third, no out.
And so up to the plate steps Charles.
Charles A-for-Albert Pujols.
Could it have been scripted better?
Thanks in part to Baker’s distraction
the first pitch misses its hoped destination
Its desired its craved low-inside location.
Too much in the middle
It’s right in the wheelhouse
Of a man dreaming hard of the Hall,
And so Charles he crushes, he flattens the ball
On a rocketed frozen rope line
Over the yellow stripe in left center.
Cards up three nothing.
Baby bears an inning closer
To another early hibernation.
First ones in the den, again.
Who needs Daniel, Edward, Frank or George
Or Hooker or Irwin or that guy who will gorge
Himself on six hot dogs each sitting
Like the Babe, Kobayashi,
Or maybe Adam Dunn.
When Charles A-for-Albert steps up to the plate
Stick a fork in those Cubbies,
They’re done.
