October 15, 200322 yr Chicago Cubbyhole By Eric Neel, Page 2 columnist It's Chicago, Wednesday morning, 7:03. The first pale light of morning peeks through a north side kitchen window. A haggard young man wearing nothing but striped pajama bottoms and a bright blue 'C' painted on his chest paces the mottled hardwood floor. He sports a three-day stubble, the hungry look of the forsaken, and a nasty Old Style hangover. He shuffles from the window to the oven and back, over and over again, and he says out loud to himself ... We're done. It's over. Remember the Angels in '86? Dave Henderson ring a bell? You don't lose a game like this game last night and just walk away from it. You lose a game like this and then you lose another game and then you go home to your miserable little apartment and lick your sorry little wounds. A disgusted Moises Alou can't block out the image of the interfering Cubs fan. Settle in, prepare to get beat but good with the losing stick in Game Seven is what you do. 'Cause it's same as it ever was in this story ... same as it ever was ... same as it ... ever ... was. It all seemed so perfect, so possible, last night: Prior on the hill, a three-run lead, five outs to go, nuns, politicians and school kids all trained in on the same Series prayer, the sweat and frenzy of that crowd out on Waveland, the sweet sting of Mark's curve diving down and away. At the start of the eighth, you could hear the members of Cub Nation from coast to coast inhale as one, each of us ready to let loose a pure, mighty shout of joy. Yeah, we were up there for a while, basking in the sunlight of glory and promise, thinking warm, happy thoughts about turning history on its ear, but we're just like Icarus today, baby, nothing but a close-but-no-cigar mess of wax and bones. Eight runs in the eighth. Marlins win. It hurts, it makes you cry out, "Why me, why us." It hurts, but it's no surprise. Truth is, it couldn't have gone any other way. Watching Prior throw BBs, you forget; but watching Mr. Excitable Boy get all apoplectic over the foul ball in the 8th, and then watching Gonzalez go du-oh on the groundball to short that same inning, you remember right quick: this losing thing, this defeat from the jaws of victory thing, this is the Cub thing going way back, this is the essence of the Cub thing. Some people talk about a curse. Forget that. Curses are petty and local. The Cub thing is deeper and wider than a curse. It's a responsibility is what it is. The Cubs don't lose, the Cubs are losing itself. We define the concept so that winning has meaning. We are the yard-stick, the baseline. You get me? And what's more, we occupy the cosmic niche. The Cubs take on frustration, disappointment and longing so that others may know deliverance, jubilation and satisfaction. We keep things in balance. We fall on our swords. The gods damn us but they love the little children. There is turmoil in our Windy City hearts but d?tente between the United States and Russia, you know what I'm saying? And there is this, too: the Cubs = losing is a time-tested, hard-rock truth, a thing people count on, a solid fact in an age of relativism and spin-doctor doublespeak. A Cubs championship throws too much of the world into doubt. It threatens to expose too many to too much. This fall has been a sweet ride. We've seen glimmers of the land of winning and honey, but it's over. Game Seven is in the Marlin bag. The world needs it that way.
October 15, 200322 yr for some reason i just feel so damn good waking up today, and as i read that i still feel good... Last year the WS the giants had a 4 run lead in the 7th and thought the won a WS, outta no where the Haillo's came back and won the game, after that the giants were to devesated to win game 7... hopefully, same bull s*** happens tonight...
October 15, 200322 yr This fall has been a sweet ride. We've seen glimmers of the land of winning and honey, but it's over. Game Seven is in the Marlin bag. The world needs it that way. so true indeed
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