Her name is Cub - Try to forget it by Hank Brockett
			Talking to a Cub fan is a little like talking to a plant. Years of rational teaching make it seem like such a lost cause, but then again, who’s it going to hurt? Maybe, just maybe, it can help. Just don’t let anybody see you.       Trying to understand a Cub fan from the outside isn’t easy. It doesn’t help that many Cub fans aren’t the most reflective of folks. This isn’t the Red Sox, who have documentarians and poets and philosophers breaking down the Puritan mindset.
			Cub love exhibits itself in shrugged shoulders. “They’re the Cubbies,” they say.       But why? WHY? These are the questions a St. Louis Cardinal fan asks. We have a past built on radio, Jack Buck broadcasting into the further reaches of humid Midwestern nights. And even ignoring the World Series appearances in the 1960s and 1980s, there’s a history of baseball appreciation. St. Louis appeals to the knowledgeable fans, the ones who appreciate Vince Coleman’s speed in 1985, The Wizard’s defense in 1982 and great waiver wire moves like Woody Williams in 2002. Just ask, and we’ll explain.       The Cubs have brick walls and the endearing legacy of a senile Harry Caray.       OK, so it’s not that simple, but it’s frustrating enough to demand answers. These two old-time rivals bring out everything so wonderful about letting another team get under your skin. Just look at the utter contempt a Cards fan wears in saying words like “Ryno” or “Sammy.” I support the notion of leaving the forced hugs of 1998 behind forever, instead calling this bloated mishmash of desperation Sam Sosa.       But to truly understand your enemy, you have to think like your enemy. The closest I can come is to compare the Cub fan to a clueless guy in a relationship. You know the girl he’s going with, you’ve heard the stories. She probably even has a few less-than-desirable nicknames within close circles. But when you look at him, he seems so oblivious, so drunkenly happy. “Isn’t she great?” the Cub fan asks.       Because the Cubs, well, they don’t need this Cubs fan. One day, as Paul Simon once sang, he’ll come back to bed and someone’s taken his place. The intoxicating blend of superstation reputation, ivy flairs and Budweiser entice followers even in the worst years. Cub followers even take the worst of tiffs (1969, 1984, 1989) and wear them with pride. “Aw, that’s just her. Just you wait, she’ll change …”       As an outsider, you see her faults and can just laugh. You’ve got a girl of your own to deal with, and one can only be an understanding friend for so long. In Major League Baseball, there are plenty of couples on the same scene.      Yankees - They seem so happy, so successful, so perfect. They can’t be happy, can they?      Boston - The couple who fights all the time, who made a big scene that one time at the party (1986, for sure). Why do they stay together? Probably because no one else will take them      Atlanta - The couple that’s always catching some good news, a two-career household with 2.4 kids and plenty of smiling family portraits in the hallways. But in those quiet moments after they say goodnight, there’s a pause. Isn’t there something more out there?       Oakland - Young, bohemian couple who don’t subscribe to the 9-to-5 workweeks and a house in the suburbs. This draws the scorn of most veterans of the scene, who can’t grasp that their ideas of happiness might not be the only way. (Yes, I’m a Moneyball disciple.)      Detroit - Everybody’s got to have somebody, right?       Looking in at another’s passion, it’s easy to both dismiss its outward appearances and fall in love with those same special circumstances. Baseball makes such feelings an endless debate with no answers, because by ourselves we can’t affect the play on the field (unless you catch a homer in a Yankees vs. Orioles playoff game). Being a fan means endless questions of your devotion, broken up only by the reassuring words of fellow fans. Hmm, communal nature, sharing the love … it’s the game Mormons were born to play!       As the playoffs wind down and the Cub fans still haven’t heard “Last call!,” Wrigleyville’s finest continue to inspire venomous disregard with every live remote from the Cubby Bear. “Whooooo! Woody rules! Prior’s awesome! Sammy will come through! I hope the sun shines so I can take off my shirt!” It’s a disgusting love, to a girl who couldn’t care less. Still, just a few games away from history, I wonder.       Is their love true? Something tells me I’m not prepared for the answer.
				Written for this website 10/7/03
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