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.
