I’ve been a fan of the Chicago Cubs baseball squad since I was a lad, this because I was born in the greater Chicagoland area and Colorado offered no Major League alternative until I was ostensibly an adult. And because that ’84 team was pure magic, Keith Moreland and Rob Dernier and Rick Sutcliffe and Ryno. And because I am evidently hardwired to root for losers.
It wasn’t always thus. I was once, very briefly, a fervent supporter of the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Early fall, 1988. Things weren’t really great around the homestead. My dad’s illness had worsened to the point that he required 24-hour, in-home nursing care. He’d lost the ability to speak, to eat. Tubes jutted from his throat and stomach. He was completely immobile, bound to an inflatable bed worth more than our mortgage. We communicated by splitting the alphabet into vowels and consonants; we’d ask which he wanted, he’d indicate his choice by raising his eyebrows. We’d run down the list of each and he’d raise them again when we hit the right letter. Slowly we built sentences together.
My mom was stuck as the sole ambulatory parent of a mopey teen in a house suddenly full of medical equipment and personnel, bound by both her daytime job as a public school librarian and this unexpected, unwanted full-time position as caregiver. She knew I was not dealing with this stuff very well. So she–or dad, or a friendly transient, I never really found out who–came up with an idea, something that might take my mind off things for a while.
See, I’d quit playing baseball the summer before because of the many trips to the many hospitals that were required of our family, but somehow that fact never bothered my imagination. I projected all manner of ridiculousness upon the imaginary tableau of baseballing me: a future as a big leaguer, Topps card groaning with statistics, proprietary bat from Wilson, huge bag of cocaine and roomful of tramps in acid-washed denim thongs.* My personal investment in playing the game had vanished completely but I stubbornly refused to believe that was so.
*Should mention that this last bit didn’t enter into my mind until I was a little older
Yet this fantasy world, silly though it might have been even at the time–I was a terrible baseball player, slow and ungainly, with a swing that could have been tried for war crimes in Geneva–was undergirded by a fierce love and understanding of the game itself. I watched the living hell out of WGN. I anxiously awaited the arrival in the Bigs of such Triple A luminaries as Damon Berryhill and Rick Wrona. I’d sit up late with a calculator and invent ballplayers, figure out their lifetime slugging percentage, make up a catcher who could hit like Rogers Hornsby and play as long as Don Sutton. I subscribed to the fucking Vine Line, for Pete’s sake. I was convinced that, if nothing else, I could manage a game better than Frank Lucchesi. (About that, at least, I was right.) There are plenty of folks out there who mythologize roundball, but make no mistake: it was the rock upon which I tied my rope.
So, the idea. My mom knew that the only other person in our family, aside from my father, who had even the most remote appreciation for baseball was my grandma Dot, who lived in Irvine and was (and remains) a big-time Dodgers fan. At season’s end, with the Cubs safely in their annual playoff-free bower, ma told me that if the Dodgers–who had made the playoffs–went to the World Series, I could fly out to California and go to a World Series game with my grandma.
She might as well have told me that we were packing up to go live in a spaceship. I was atwitter. The World Series! And all that needed to happen was to have the Dodgers in it!
Which was, of course, why this particular promise was made: no one thought the Dodgers had a chance in crippled fuck at making the Series. Not my mom, not my grandma, not Tommy Lasorda. They were a huge underdog to the Mets in the NLCS–the Mets, the brutal late ’80s Mets of Doc and Darrell, who’d beaten them 10 out of 11 times in the regular season. The Dodgers were Kirk Gibson, Orel Hershisher and a bunch of guys from a day labor place on La Cienega. The baseball cognoscenti expected this thing to be over quickly and painfully.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the slaughterhouse: the sacrificial lambs rose up and killed the butcher (I have to admit that I stole this line from a 1983 Sports Illustrated story about the University of Miami, which pisses me off, but, hey, gotta own up).
The Dodgers beat the Mets four games to three. I listened to Mike Scioscia’s extra inning, Game 4-winning homer on a handheld boom box in my sister’s car traveling from Boulder to Fort Collins, static so awful that the only words I could pick out were HOME RUN SCIOSCIA, which then immediately sent me into a paroxysm of teenage freakoutery.
I was blissfully certain that the planets were aligning solely for my sake. I was applying the rooting skills I’d honed in the service of the wretched Baby Bears to a real, tangible cause: getting me, Alex, to a World Series game in Los Angeles.
And then, after the confetti was cleaned up and the Dodgers were preparing to meet (and eventually beat, in an even bigger upset than the Mets series) the Oakland Athletics, my mom pulled me aside.
They weren’t going to be able to send me, after all. Turns out that no one–not mom, not grandma, not Tommy Lasorda–really believed that the Dodgers were actually going to make it, and now that they had, the harsh volume of circumstance rested upon my little dream. Circumstance, as it happens, weighs a ton.
But…
After I was done being crushed and abused and put upon by the Impersonal Forces of Nature, I found myself watching the Series like I’d been pro-Dodgers my whole life. I’ve never cheered the Cubs more than I did that ’88 L.A. team. When Gibson pinch hit that game-winning dong off Eckersley, so hurt he could barely get to the plate, I jumped up and yelled like I was in the stands with grandma. That is, after all, what a fan does.