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And while the subsequent pattern may have been the same, the
intensity and frequency of the peaks and dips that followed were ratcheted to nearly
unbearable levels over the final seven games. From the disbelieving joy of Game 1 (“we’re
finally here!”) slightly soured with the loss, to the tense rebound of Game 2 (“we
can’t get on a plane to go home down
0-2…”) ultimately sweetened by the win. Some thrills, some scares, but the net
gain was zero -- it was down to a five game series.
And then comes the return home, where you saw a constantly flowing
stream of people wearing blue or flying the W from their houses, cars, or
apartments, literally from the minute you stepped off the plane. The airport (and your plane, for that matter)
is full of people wearing Cubs gear, heeding the call home the same as you -- all
hands on deck. It all leads up to the weekend, the biggest one for the club in
the last 70 years (and maybe the city, too) for three straight games and a
chance to spin the fairytale ending by winning it all at home.
But that would have been too easy -- this is Chicago and
this is the Cubs, so you knew you were going to have to suffer more before it
was over, because the best stories follow the paths of our winters and need to
nearly break you before letting up. So
the almost worst case scenario unfolds – the joy of Game 3 and our hosting the
first Series game since the Second World War gets blotted out, quickly followed
by an uncharacteristically terrible Game 4 where we compound the damage by
piling several errors on top of our suddenly silent bats.
And thus follows the first of what will ultimately be many
days of high unease and uncertainty. The
giddy block party that filled the neighborhood the first two nights becomes a
tense, stomach churning affair the following day you can see reflected in the
eyes of passersby – instead of toothy grins you now exchange teeth-bared
grimaces and nods, shifting from the self-assured to the self-assuring. (“We can do
this!” to “we can do this…we can do this…”)
This builds to the backs to the wall breakthrough of Game 5 and the feeling of relief that courses through the city in its wake. (“You won’t sweep us at home and celebrate in our city; we will fly the white flag from our beloved field at least once; we will live to fight another day.”) Cue two more days of uncertainty – two LONG days of anxious waiting – but days that are imbued with a flicker of hope stronger than the day before. That flicker becomes fire in Game 6 with an explosion of runs and offense that brings us back to level.
This builds to the backs to the wall breakthrough of Game 5 and the feeling of relief that courses through the city in its wake. (“You won’t sweep us at home and celebrate in our city; we will fly the white flag from our beloved field at least once; we will live to fight another day.”) Cue two more days of uncertainty – two LONG days of anxious waiting – but days that are imbued with a flicker of hope stronger than the day before. That flicker becomes fire in Game 6 with an explosion of runs and offense that brings us back to level.
Which leads to the longest day – the all or nothing pressure
of one final game; the possibility of fully climbing out of the biggest of
holes on the biggest of stages; the hope of seeing something you’ve waited your
entire life for (and your father, and your grandfather…); the fear of having
come this close only to fall short yet again.
These thoughts swirl in your head like a hurricane up the coast and the
weather matches your mindset, a black, blustery mix of rain and wind that sends
you scurrying around town.
But you soldier on. You
follow the same rituals – you listen to the same album as you’ve listened to
before every game, you wear the same hat; your lucky socks and boxers. You go to the same bar where the rally
started, hit the same spots on the sidewalk as you walk around like a crazy
person -- the wheel of fortune looking thing on the sewer covers, the blue W’s
that follow the water lines, the “CWWs” you decide stand for “Cubs WILL win…” (Which you say in your head as your foot hits
the letters…) You do these things knowing it won’t matter, but unable to stop
yourself and take the chance at this late an hour. You fight off the urge to vomit for hours as
you try to distract yourself with these minor insanities.
And then the game starts.
Where the lead that’s acquired from the literal onset –
against the pitcher who’s beguiled us two previous times, now going for his
third victory – gets quickly dashed two innings later. We renew and expand the lead immediately
after that – knocking their starter out early! -- …but then our pitcher is suddenly
and surprisingly removed, too (“he’d retired seven straight – what are you
doing?!”) and the lead is cut in half by a couple errors. (“Here we go again,
just like the other night…”) One of the errant parties snatches redemption on his
next at bat, improbably homering to extend the lead again, while the other does
so too, going two more innings on short rest to stretch the bullpen a little longer.
And now we’re six outs away.
Our shutdown closer comes in to work his magic one more
time, set to throw fire for the remaining four outs and pitch out of a little
jam... but he’s pitched the previous two games, too, including an epic outing
three days ago, so is more human than super and they knock a run off the lead. No
worries. (“Four more outs…”) He gets to one strike away from ending the inning (“almost
there!”) …but then hangs a pitch that gets clobbered into the corner and somehow
stays fair on its way into the stands. Back
to level again... (“Why did you pitch him last night – we were up five at the time!”)
He rebounds the following inning, mowing the opposition down in order after we
squander an attempt to take the lead in our half of the ninth. (“Three more
outs…”)
And then the rains come.
And you’re left to agonize over everything that’s come
before, both in this game and in this team’s history. Goats and black cats, ’84
and ‘03, the spike before the sweep last year …and the urge to vomit comes back
for the twentieth time tonight. You’re
going to extra innings. You’ve blown the lead twice. Most recently with your ace on the mound. This
is game 7. And this is the Cubs.
But twenty minutes or so later play resumes and we quickly
put two more on the board. (“Hey hey!”) A
fresh arm appears from our bullpen and gets an easy out. Then a second. (“ONE MORE OUT!”) And your
stomach starts doing flips with every pitch.
With every second. But then there’s a walk. And a stolen base. And then a double to cut the
lead in half again, courtesy of the guy who’d homered his previous at bat to tie
things up.
Another pitching change. More waiting. More pacing. More
cursing. But then he gets a strike. And
another one. And all of a sudden there’s
a slow dribbler to our all-star third baseman…who slips when he throws it to
first (“oh come on!”)…but after a seemingly interminable flight time………….it
gets there. And it’s over. We’ve won the World Series for the first time
in over a century. (“#$%@!”)
And then the city loses its mind.
There’s jumping, there’s dancing, there’s more smile crying
than you can believe from this many grown-ups. There’s mass running through the
streets, like a herd of buffalo fleeing an unseen predator. Shouting, cheering, hugging, dancing. More running, more smile crying, more
dancing. Until the lights go out and you
don’t remember anymore, your brain unable to process this much happiness and stress. You lose your hat. You lose your jacket, having thrown both off
at some point like a jubilant graduate.
You face plant at least once, unable to even stand upright under the
weight of all this joy. And you keep running.
Until somehow you manage to get home, work the keypad to enter the
building, and find your way to bed.
When you wake up the following morning you try and piece
together whether it really happened because the end of the night is a fog. You check the news. You check the paper. You check the phone because somehow it still
could be a scam. But your screaming calves and scuffed up face are tangible
proof – it really happened. And you start smiling. And you don’t stop for the rest of the
day. Full face, teary eyed joy. You walk around like this all day, making eye
contact with fellow travelers and somehow grinning even more. You high five. You hug.
You walk around this city on possibly the most perfect fall day achievable
and see hundreds of others seemingly on the same cloud you are. And it’s one of
the best days of your life – one of your favorite memories of your favorite
place on earth, seeing this many people this happy about something that hasn’t happened
in over a hundred years and that you’ve been waiting your entire life for.
It’s the greatest.
There’s the formal celebration and parade the following day
that heightens the glow – you get there early to see the rally but can’t get
farther than the parade route. Because
while you expected a lot of people, you’ve never actually seen this many in the
same spot at one time. An endless,
undulating sea of people, all decked out in royal blue. Flags, smiles everywhere. In the road, in
the trees, on people’s shoulders. In all
directions, for as far as you can see.
It turns out it’s the sixth largest gathering of humans – IN
THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! -- and it’s the happiest collection of people you’ve
ever been around. You sing, you high
five, you smile some more. You see the
team go by, the trophy, all the heroes of the previous weeks (and the season
overall), surrounded by a torrent of confetti and singing, dancing people. You
hear the speeches and the remembrances of everyone who’s worn the uniform or
waited for this day, but didn’t make it to the end. You remember the losses –
of these games and people -- and it sweetens this victory and this unbelievable
day.
And then you go home. The most epic, intense, and stressful
week of your life is over. The Cubs have won the World Series. And you smile
cry one more time, because you still can’t believe it.
The Cubs have won the World Series – holy cow…
-----------------
Wanted to throw a couple tunes up here in line with the above that formed the soundtrack to the week, either being belted out at the bars or creeping from my headphones. We'll start with the former, which besides impromptu renditions of the seventh inning stretch and eleventy billion choruses of "Go Cubs Go" was one of the more enjoyable rarities. It's Eddie Vedder's ode to his beloved team, "All the Way," written during one of our failed playoff runs. The lyrics are sweet, the chorus was what got belted out back home, and the video's pretty great too -- check it out here:
And we'll close with the song that got things started for me every game day, getting worn out along with the rest of the album as I played it on virtual repeat. It's the lead track off Bon Iver's new album, 22, A Million, and the pinched falsetto of the title served as a hopeful harbinger of things to come as it wormed its way around your head. It's a great song on an equally excellent album (we'll be seeing it in a few months on the year end wrapup...), so check out "22 (Over S∞∞n) in the meantime:
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