Cubs Win: Fandom, Family, and Sports

I don't know where to start.

I was starting to become a sport cynic. I was barely three months old when the Bears won the Super Bowl in '85. And even though I was scraping the roof of being a teenager when the Bulls won their sixth title in eight years, there's no way that their first championship in '91 could have had any significant impact on my life, especially considering the absolute dominance that those six seasons contained. My involvement was harnessed to reading the game recaps in the Tribune the next morning while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. I'll fast forward through the White Sox' World Series, not because I didn't watch it, but I just didn't care who won. 

2010 really marked the first time in my life that a team in which I supported, after a season in which I watched, was crowned a winner. I can't call myself a die-hard Blackhawks fan. I mean, we went to a game during the 2009 season, so I was interested, but I'm not even sure I knew the full definition of icing or offsides at that point.

Well thanks to NHL '09 on PS4, I learned the game and learned the team, so when Jonathan Toews hoisted the Stanley Cup in June of 2010, there was a pretty special release of pure elation. It got a little crazy on Division St. that night, and memories of Kane's overtime winner will never leave me, but before you know it, three years later... BOOM, and two year later... BOOM. 

By the time the Cup was raised for the third time, the feeling was not only fleeting, the feeling was almost empty. Sure, I already knew that I wasn't on the one on the ice, ripping wristers or blocking passes, and that anyone who says 'we' when referring to a sports team is quite possibly partially insane, unless of course they work for that team, in which case: kudos, but there was an extra feeling of ineptitude or helplessness as we drank from the bottle of J. Roget at Waterhouse. It's always fun to celebrate, but the overwhelming thought of what are we actually celebrating lingered long after that night in June. I didn't win anything. I didn't accomplish anything. Hell, the only reason I support the team goes back to a relatively random decision of a family of Lazzerinis settling in a large Midwestern city. 

And then the 2016 Cubs season happened.

There has never been a season of a sport that I spent more time watching than the 2016 Cubs season. Obviously, given the excitement and success of the previous year, and the size of the target on their back, it was easy to invest, but let me tell you just exactly what I invested. 

I don't remember a time in my life when baseball was not present. Even if I can maybe place a memory or two before the first time I picked up a bat on the timeline of me, my older brother was already playing the sport in an organized fashion, AND, I was definitely the 'baby at the bar' after my dad's softball games in the late 80s. I began playing 'weekend travel' baseball as a seven-year-old, which was some slightly more serious competition after the initial 'house league' season had ended. Three years later, and for the next five years, I played 'permanent travel' baseball, where children (with the support of loving and caring adults) played 60+ games in a summer, traveling down to Lisle, IL or out to Cary, IL on a week night, up to Minnesota or down to Omaha on a weekend. 

Then four years of Spring high school baseball, three years of Summer high school baseball, one year of Fall high school baseball, and finally and barely two years of college Club Baseball, where the pain I felt after a game was most likely due to a hangover as opposed to throwing too many pitches. Toss in one more season of a young men's league (under 22) after college and a decade of softball, and it's pretty easy to see how much playing the sport as been a part of my life. 

And then there's the Cubs. My grandfather spent a good chunk of his younger years at 1935 N. Sheffield Ave., just two miles south of Wrigley Field. He used to walk up to the north edge of the stadium during the formerly more common double-headers to wait for the first game to end. Much-to-do folks would leave after game 1, drop their ticket in the street, and continue their day. Forever frugal Al Lazzerini would scoop up the discarded and watch game 2 with his buddies for free. 

For the time I lived at home, Sundays were spent one way: with our grandparents. Fortunate enough to grow up a few miles away and eventually only a block, we spent lunch to dinner with them every Sunday for the first 20+ years of my life. College and moving out complicated things, but generally, Sundays were untouchable. In the fall, it was the Bears at noon, Italian sausage on the grill. Football Sundays were special for sure, but nothing compares to the grind and persistence of a six month, 162 game baseball schedule. Watching and reacting (often negatively) to Cubs games while sitting around their kitchen table populates a series of memories that I can't imagine fading. We are a family of baseball fans, and more accurately, we are a family of Cubs fan. 

In March of 2013, my grandfather passed away, months after taking care of my grandmother to the end of her run, and through what turned out to be stage four cancer that he fought off just long enough. Ninety years on this planet, and never once did he see his Cubs win a World Series.

As I watched the playoffs transpire, often at the same bar, at the same table, and in the same seat, I got nervous. Not contemplating their chances of winning or stressing with every blown save or offensive shutout, but with what would happen if they actually won. Barely a year had passed since I sat with that empty feeling of victory, one that I didn't earn and had no reason bragging about, so how would I react when the final out was made?

Fandom is a tricky topic. We know, 'sure as God created green apples,' that the players on the team for which we root are not the same thing as the team. They are a constantly moving, evolving, and changing group of professionals that are simply doing their job. But obviously, being a fan is more than cheering for players. Sports, the best and purest possible form of reality TV, goes being entertainment and borders a world of escapism, whatever that may mean to you. It goes beyond entertainment and borders a world of emotional awakening. Borders a world of legacy and history. Of friends, family, camaraderie. Of passion. Of hope. 

Game 7 was a roller coaster that is nearly impossible to describe. Everyone had their own experience, and everyone will remember where they were for one of the most memorable games in the history of sports. When Kris Bryant connected with Anthony Rizzo for the final out, for the hours, days, and now weeks after, my tear ducts have been loose, my emotions have been rampant, and my spirit has been vibrating. 

Everything I had ever put in, the years, the pain, the admiration, the practice, the time, the patience, the energy, the arguments, the scouting, the excitement, the persistence, the scrutiny, the fun, the pieces of myself, all of it was returned tenfold on Wednesday night, November 2nd, 2016, and we will always be connected, past, present, and future, by the most exciting, excruciating, invigorating, and nearly unbelievable but undeniably unforgettable season that's ever been played. 

No Hope in Sports

On February 15^th, 2014, Ray Rice knocked out his fiancé in an elevator. On film. He was suspended for two games. The criminal charges dropped. And actually won a settlement against the Ravens for an undisclosed but likely multi-million dollar amount because of a ‘second punishment.’

On January 18^th, 2015, the NFL began investigation on the Patriots for using deflated footballs in the AFC Championship game. Tom Brady was suspended 4 games. A judge overturned the suspension because Brady didn’t have enough notice. On April 25^th, 2016, the U.S. Second Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the judge’s decision and Tom Brady was suspended for four games.

On June 21^st, 2014, Hope Solo assaulted her 17-year-old nephew while intoxicated, punching him, tackling him, ripping his shirt, scratching his arm, and causing his ear to bleed. She also threatened a police officer by saying, ‘You're such a b----. You're scared of me because you know that if the handcuffs were off, I'd kick your ass.’ No action was taken by the U.S. Women’s National Team.

On August 12^th, 2016, the U.S. Women’s National Team lost to Sweden and Hope Solo says ‘we played a bunch of cowards… I don't think they're going to make it far in the tournament. I think it was very cowardly.’ For her comments, Hope Solo was suspended for 6 months.

Now, I’m sure there are details to these stories that I either missed or don’t care about, but these are the highlights, and they are the facts. I could do more research, but this is a blog, not the NYT.

I’ve already come to grips with the fact that celebrities are treated differently than civilians. If my recent binge-watching of Ray Donovan has taught me anything, there are plenty of people in the world that leverage, punish, or generally cover up anyone or anything that might damage an image, and that this kind of activity not only happens everywhere, but often, for those that can afford it. Fine. To be fair, I can’t think of anything in my life that would require Ray or Aví or Lena to help out. Sure, I’ve chalked up a few on the embarrassing stories scoreboard, but nothing that would keep me out of running for office, a profession I would never consider.

The only explanation on how Ray Rice and an angry-drunk Hope Solo received a lesser penalty for their actions than Tom Brady and a sharp-tongued Hope Solo is that the NFL and the U.S. Women’s National Team care more about the ‘integrity’ of their sport than the integrity of the people participating.

In simpler terms, the game matters more than life.

The billion dollar industry of the NFL – at least I understand that it’s all about the money, and you can’t have players cheating and expect people to watch. Except that players already cheat, across the league, top of roster to bottom, just in non-visible ways. But the U.S. Women’s National Team, an organization that you would hope supports victims in a far greater way than any of the major leagues – that one really doesn’t make sense. Leagues or teams tend to pucker up when someone criticizes management, officials, or the league higher-ups, which to some extent makes sense. But calling another team cowards seems like a pretty normal thing to say. Stupid, petty, and based in frustration, but really not too bad, except that it paints the team in a bad light.

So if you do anything – and I mean anything – that hurts or injures the team or the game, that’s more severe than if you do something that hurts or injures a person.

I don’t know a lot, but I know this: LIFE is more important than entertainment.

What possible message could they be sending into the world? It doesn’t matter what laws you break in the real world, once you’re inside the Coliseum, you’re rinsed of your sins and reborn again? As long as you feel bad for what you say, then strap on your gear and get ready to compete? It’s asinine and shameful.

I’m sorry, I have to get back to this. Hope Solo punched her 17-year-old nephew and verbally assaulted a police officer and nothing happens. Hope Solo calls the Sweden team cowards for having a conservative game plan and loses half a year of playing. Sticks and stones.

I probably don’t have to go through meandering sentences and long-winded theories on why I feel so strongly about this particular juxtaposition, because I don’t know anyone that would disagree with me. I’m sure I’ll never understand the pressure and spotlight of being an international superstar, and that my life couldn’t possibly compare to the monumental entertainers that captivate worldwide audiences, but I know that life is more important than work. Every time. Every single time. I struggle to comprehend anything else. 

Currency

My dad and I had a conversation recently, and the conclusion was challenging but ultimately expected. From two different generations, our values don’t align. That’s not to say that we don’t have overlapping perspectives regarding literal human existence, but, to quote DFW, what we both see as the “capital T truth” about who we are and why we are alive is different. And that’s okay.

I spend a lot of time in my car. The reality of living in Chicago and working in the suburbs takes its toll on my car, but it no longer takes a toll on me. Regardless if podcasts are the reasons, I’ve found solace in my solo driving. If nothing else, it gives me a chance to think. Which is exactly what happened when I listened to [my favorite sports and pop culture guru] Bill Simmons talk to [a now wildly respected and very curious billionaire investor] Chris Sacca, touching on topics that I’ve very rarely been tasked with considering along my seemingly perpetual 2 hours of driving a day.

We didn’t have a ton growing up. Don’t get me wrong, we (my brother and I) were privileged. Good school, new toys, and happy, in-love parents. So I guess take all of this with a grain of salt. But from an early stage, my parents taught the value of the dollar. They were not world-beaters at 30. And again, that isn’t an insult. It was a sign of the times. They worked their asses off to make sure we didn’t know they were working their asses off. It’s an unbelievable trait, and I don’t write metaphorically.

Thing is, whether it’s my kind of hippie parents that somehow, unbenounced to the rest of the world, found absolute happiness, or Chris Sacca, someone that has both wiffed and connected on so many amazing Silicon Valley enterprises, the end result tends to be the same.

If we’re talking monetary value, how could you even put my parents in the same stratosphere as Chris Sacca? I don’t know a lot, but I’ve learned this.

Value is not in the face on the bill.

Currency is a fallacy. Sure, money makes it easier, but poll the 1% and ask if they are happier. I know the ‘mo’ money mo’ problems’ idea isn’t new, but it goes beyond the value of stocks or your retirement number. There has been such a fucking notion seeping through society of ‘playing it safe’ is how you get from point A to point B, that the average mind-numb imbecile is ready to chalk up life to what was so clearly laid out for them. Truth is, and I believe and DFW implied, the capital T truth is that currency is not the dollar or Euro or Yen or Pound… The capital T ‘truth’ is currency is secret, selfish, BUT, shockingly universal.

Universal, unlike the mildly entertaining theme parked attached to the sweaty belly button that is Orlando, means that we all experience it. Whether we’re stuck in rush hour traffic, banging the walls of our cubicle, or cleaning up literal shit, we cannot believe this is all that matters. To quote another -famous-but-mainly-from-a-movie figure, “would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance…” to walk away happy.

The choice seems simple. Either be happy, or live long enough to see yourself become an asshole. But it’s my firm contention that either way, it’s a choice. Long live the days when a speckle of gold made your life valuable. These days, value is not only placed on what can make you money, but on who can make you feel whole. A few extra commas in your bank account is nice, but I promise you, feeling is the most valuable commodity we have on this planet. Sympathy. Empathy. Compassion. Understanding. Trust. The more we use these 5 words, the closer we get to a society that understands itself. My dad is 62. We are not the same person. But I see in him, for possibly the first time in my lifetime, an openness to what could be next.

Every day, every one of us gets closer to dying. That’s not cynicism, that’s reality. But the way I see it, we have two goals in life. Impact everyone you meet in a positive way, and be happy with who you are. Those ideas are so independent of fiscal representation…

Currency is not a fact, it’s an opinion. 

A Quiet Phone

My first job out of college was called an instructional designer, a title I still possess today. In nine years, while my title has not changed, my position and experience within an industry I never knew existed most certainly has. Well before I knew about Kirkpatrick’s four levels of feedback or Bloom’s Taxonomy, I simply had an eye for formatting PowerPoints and a knack of the English Language, which apparently was enough to be hired, employed, and actually promoted to a lead designer during this 7-month project contract. Since that first job until today at work, everything I’ve learned has been on the job. With no formal education, I’ve had to try and figure out this intangible and generally unknown field as I go.

The thing is, instructional design falls within a broad category called adult learning. Some instructional design for adult learning actually produces the aforementioned formal education, but my work almost exclusively focused on internal training projects for a company, ranging from quite technical, process-oriented material to high-level leadership ideas, and ranging from a paper manual to an interactive and dynamic piece of online learning. No matter the medium, the greatest thing about adult learning: guess what I am? An adult (usually)! So while craft and skill and creativeness dominate the field, there is a relatively simple, consistent backbone that supports the entire industry; would I want to take this? It seems kind of obvious, but even if I’m designing a course for people at the lower end of the adult spectrum, I’ve experienced what they are going through and generally can connect with the audience, something that, say, a high school teacher at the end of their career might struggle with. So when asked to narrate 30 minutes of content with mild PowerPoint animation in the background, I can confidently push back by saying, ‘is this something that you would want to do? Then why put our participants through it?’

Speaking of high school, I wasn’t prom king. That’s pretty narrow, but even if we widened that demographic to include the ‘generally popular kids,’ once again I was on the outside looking in. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends. I kind of walked the line, inadvertently, between pop, jock, and nerd. Mostly A student playing football and baseball that let his friends drink at his empty parents’ house despite not drinking until college. But when I wasn’t taking advantage of my parents’ 25th anniversary, I spent most weekends in front of a similar screen at which I am currently staring, scrolling through my rolodex of people that regretted ever sharing their phone number. I didn’t really know what kids did on the weekend, but it seemed like the place to be. My most common, non-intrusive line when I finally got people on the phone would be something along the lines of keep me posted if something actually happens. And when the phone never rang, I just assumed everyone was equally bored and lonely. This wasn’t the case.

With those as my memories from high school, it's not hard to explain how I am today. It doesn’t take formal education in psychology. For years, I felt ignored, rejected, and alone. There have been enough songs and quotes about the visceral darkness that accompanies waiting by a phone that never rings. It’s crushing. And when it happens ritually, it shapes the rest of your life. Despite the way technology has made it easier to connect and communicate, some of the same pitfalls from life 15 years ago still apply. We have more ways to talk than ever before, but more distractions too. So the idea of staying off the internet to keep a phone line free is obviously extinct, fine, but the onslaught of communication has amplified the opportunities for disappointment.

But for as many opportunities there are for disappointment, there’s an equal number of chances for fulfillment. In 2016, this looks like responding to a text or an email. We’ve become a society where not having your cell phone with you is hard to imagine. The panic that sets in during the initial moments of checking your pocket or purse and not immediately locating your phone rivals any thrill ride I’ve ever embarked. Of course, restrictions apply, but generally, even if you work a job that requires relatively dedicated attention, there are still opportunities. In 2016, this looks like replying to a Facebook invitation with an accurate response, in a relatively timely manner. Because we all get that it’s a little silly, but what other medium do we have?

In 2016, this means saying yes. What I mean is easier explained when turned around. I understand that not everyone has the same sense of adventure, but if at some point you have thought or read or heard of an event or restaurant or bar or store or park that you want to check out and generally would like some company when you do. Not revolutionary. But with the advent of Netflix and blah blah blah it’s become easier to do nothing while still feeling connected. But true connection happens face to face.

For me, it’s probably deep-seeded in my angst-y high school days when I didn’t understand why I often felt on the outside. It’s easier to look back, but those experiences have affected my current perspective. An unanswered text won’t leave me inconsolable in my bedroom with a heavy metal album playing on repeat. So with a slideshow of memories on call, I try, as honestly as I can, to treat others the way I wish I was treated. How does it feel when your texts fall on empty thumbs? When your emails fall on empty hands? When your invites go unanswered or ignored or simply declined?

Just like when I’m designing a new training course at work, all you have to ask is ‘would I want this done to me?’