Hope is a good thing . . . and no good thing ever dies
I didn't cry at my wedding. I didn't cry at the end of Bambi or Old Yeller either. I'm not that emotional of a person. I generally don't get overly high because I know I'll be coming down soon. And likewise, I don't get to down, because I know it won't last.
As The Simpsons accurately portrayed in one episode:
Lisa: "Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation, we feel neither highs nor lows"
Homer: "Really? What's it like?"
Lisa: "ehh..."
That's pretty much me in a nutshell.
It's probably not the best outlook for life, but it does keep me from getting overly stressed out about work or any other issues that come my way. But at the same time, it keeps me from getting truly excited when something good happens. As Lisa said, it's "ehh."
So if I'm not emotionally involved in so may other aspects of life, why is baseball, especially the Cubs, so different for me? I'll yell at the television, throw my hat on the floor and become generally frustrated over what Yes Dear calls "just a game." Other times, I'm on the floor begging for a base hit to drive in the winning run, or a slider low-and-away to get the final out. Why does such a simple game have the power to turn me into an emotional wreck 162 times a year?
Growing up, the baseball and soccer were the games I played as a child, and soccer wasn't on television, but baseball was. More specifically, the Cubs were on. I'd come home from school and much to the disappointment and frustration of my brothers, I'd turn on the game and basically monopolize the television for a couple hours.
At that time, I didn't know anything about the Cubs futile history; I just knew these were professionals playing a game that I played. I wanted to be like them.
As time went on, I was fortunate enough to taste success with the Cubs in 1989 when they won their division and made the playoffs. Of course, they failed to reach the World Series, and it was then I began to realize the truly daunting feat of not reaching the series since 1945.
Through the early and mid-90s, it didn't get better for the Cubs, in fact, it got worse. When you're team's General Manger is in commercials saying "We're working on it," you know things aren't going well for your team.
Following the strike of 1994, I swore off baseball. It was an empty promise made by a 15-year-old who knew, deep down, he'd be back.
More disappointing years followed in 1995, 1996 and 1997. I followed, but not with the same enthusiasm I had in the early 90s. Then, in 1998, Sammy Sosa and Mark "I don't want to talk about the past" McGwire captivated the nation in a thrilling homerun chase. Not only that, Sosa was leading the Cubs to the playoffs, where more disappointment was in store. The Cubs were swept by the Braves in the first round.
Four more frustratingly disappointing years followed until 2003. The Cubs were suddenly good, and not fluky good, but good with a solid, young team that could compete for years. But again, disappointment set in as the Cubs lost.
Last year saw the Cubs spare their fans the pain of losing in the playoffs. Instead, a 2-7 stretch to end the season meant the players were watching the playoffs from the same place I was, on their couch.
But it was there, on my couch, watching the Boston Red Sox pull off the greatest comeback in the history of baseball, followed by a four-game sweep in the World Series, that I realized why baseball pulls me from my emotional void.
For 86 years, Red Sox fans had suffered along with Cub fans, longing for a world title that always seemed just out of reach. Generations had come and gone waiting for their team to hoist the championship trophy. After a painful playoff loss, one fan lamented "They killed my father, and now they're coming after me."
But seeing the fans in New England spend the entire off-season celebrate "their" victory with "their" team taught me something. Those fans never gave up hope. The lived and died with the "idiots" because they knew, at the end of the day, they'd be able to celebrate just as much, if not more, than the players who won.
Cheering for the Cubs gives me something I don't find in many other places. They give me a chance to ride the rollercoaster of emotion. It's a chance to break out of the day-to-day routine of work and home. It's a chance to feel the highs and lows that let us know we're alive and not just taking up space.
More importantly, it gives me something to hope in that's bigger than myself. It's 96 years of fans waiting and believing that this is the year it finally happens. It's a connection to the past all while looking to the future. It's the belief that no matte how bad things get, they'll turn around. As Andy said to Red in The Shawshank Redemption: "Hope is a good thing . . . and no good thing ever dies."
And no matter how bad things get at the end of the year, Hope is there every spring, waiting for you.
On Deck: Something much more light-hearted, that was heavier than I expected it to be.
As The Simpsons accurately portrayed in one episode:
Lisa: "Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation, we feel neither highs nor lows"
Homer: "Really? What's it like?"
Lisa: "ehh..."
That's pretty much me in a nutshell.
It's probably not the best outlook for life, but it does keep me from getting overly stressed out about work or any other issues that come my way. But at the same time, it keeps me from getting truly excited when something good happens. As Lisa said, it's "ehh."
So if I'm not emotionally involved in so may other aspects of life, why is baseball, especially the Cubs, so different for me? I'll yell at the television, throw my hat on the floor and become generally frustrated over what Yes Dear calls "just a game." Other times, I'm on the floor begging for a base hit to drive in the winning run, or a slider low-and-away to get the final out. Why does such a simple game have the power to turn me into an emotional wreck 162 times a year?
Growing up, the baseball and soccer were the games I played as a child, and soccer wasn't on television, but baseball was. More specifically, the Cubs were on. I'd come home from school and much to the disappointment and frustration of my brothers, I'd turn on the game and basically monopolize the television for a couple hours.
At that time, I didn't know anything about the Cubs futile history; I just knew these were professionals playing a game that I played. I wanted to be like them.
As time went on, I was fortunate enough to taste success with the Cubs in 1989 when they won their division and made the playoffs. Of course, they failed to reach the World Series, and it was then I began to realize the truly daunting feat of not reaching the series since 1945.
Through the early and mid-90s, it didn't get better for the Cubs, in fact, it got worse. When you're team's General Manger is in commercials saying "We're working on it," you know things aren't going well for your team.
Following the strike of 1994, I swore off baseball. It was an empty promise made by a 15-year-old who knew, deep down, he'd be back.
More disappointing years followed in 1995, 1996 and 1997. I followed, but not with the same enthusiasm I had in the early 90s. Then, in 1998, Sammy Sosa and Mark "I don't want to talk about the past" McGwire captivated the nation in a thrilling homerun chase. Not only that, Sosa was leading the Cubs to the playoffs, where more disappointment was in store. The Cubs were swept by the Braves in the first round.
Four more frustratingly disappointing years followed until 2003. The Cubs were suddenly good, and not fluky good, but good with a solid, young team that could compete for years. But again, disappointment set in as the Cubs lost.
Last year saw the Cubs spare their fans the pain of losing in the playoffs. Instead, a 2-7 stretch to end the season meant the players were watching the playoffs from the same place I was, on their couch.
But it was there, on my couch, watching the Boston Red Sox pull off the greatest comeback in the history of baseball, followed by a four-game sweep in the World Series, that I realized why baseball pulls me from my emotional void.
For 86 years, Red Sox fans had suffered along with Cub fans, longing for a world title that always seemed just out of reach. Generations had come and gone waiting for their team to hoist the championship trophy. After a painful playoff loss, one fan lamented "They killed my father, and now they're coming after me."
But seeing the fans in New England spend the entire off-season celebrate "their" victory with "their" team taught me something. Those fans never gave up hope. The lived and died with the "idiots" because they knew, at the end of the day, they'd be able to celebrate just as much, if not more, than the players who won.
Cheering for the Cubs gives me something I don't find in many other places. They give me a chance to ride the rollercoaster of emotion. It's a chance to break out of the day-to-day routine of work and home. It's a chance to feel the highs and lows that let us know we're alive and not just taking up space.
More importantly, it gives me something to hope in that's bigger than myself. It's 96 years of fans waiting and believing that this is the year it finally happens. It's a connection to the past all while looking to the future. It's the belief that no matte how bad things get, they'll turn around. As Andy said to Red in The Shawshank Redemption: "Hope is a good thing . . . and no good thing ever dies."
And no matter how bad things get at the end of the year, Hope is there every spring, waiting for you.
On Deck: Something much more light-hearted, that was heavier than I expected it to be.
posted by Luke at 11:10 PM
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