Something there is that loves a loser. Fans of the Cubs feel compelled to deny that, especially when the White Sox are in first and the Cubs are muddling through another mediocre season, but, really, who are we kidding? Losers put no pressure on the audience. A fan feels entitled to take the game on whatever level seems appropriate at the moment, whether that be concentrated frustration or, at the other pole, benign neglect. The game is there to be picked up and studied, a piece of bric-a-brac meaningful in and of itself, like an elegant paperweight; or it is simply an excuse to get out and reconnect with friends–or connect with strangers, for that matter.
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Last week, early into September, we went out to Wrigley Field and were overjoyed with the evening. The sky was overcast, ruining the sunset, the weather was cool and damp, and the Cubs were playing the even-more-woeful New York Mets. The college kids had returned to campus, and the serious baseball fans had gravitated to the south side. Leaving, what, the undiscerning fans of the Cubs? The diehards? The remaining ranks of Lee Elia’s unemployed 5 percent? Or, just maybe, not fans of real baseball but real baseball fans. Two lovely amazons, one wearing Shalimar, briefly sat in the row right in front of us. They wafted their way further down the aisle when our season-ticket neighbors, the family of four–husband, wife, and two daughters, one of whom we’ve known since she was a baby–arrived belatedly. We talked of this and that, and paid enough attention to keep an error-free scorecard (no MOs, short for “made out,” a common abbreviation of ours at Wrigley Field this summer). When the seventh inning ended and we had sung “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and the Cubs still trailed 7-0, we went home, without a pang of guilt or regret. The game had done its duty. We were refreshed, placid, content, prepared to face another day. And while Wrigley Field had much to do with it–the skyline backdrop, a swirling gauze of insects in the lights, nighthawks feasting on those same insects, and the organ keeping us all almost subconsciously attuned to what was happening in the game (an unabashed nyah, nyah to Sox fans on all those counts)–the Cubs had little to do with it. What they provided was that censer’s aroma of defeatism common to September baseball on the north side, that air of no longer disappointment that, well, may not make life worth living but makes it not worth hating, which will suffice under certain circumstances.
In an expansion year, the Cubs typified the age by having to rely on players who were in over their heads. All around, only catcher Rick Wilkins was an unqualified success. After a miserable start, he entered September hitting almost .300, with 25 homers. What’s more, in slugging percentage (total bases per at-bat) he trailed only Barry Bonds in the entire league. His defense was, on the surface at least, solid, although the fragility of the pitching staff should no doubt be blamed in part on his pitch selection, with manager Jim Lefebvre in cahoots on that.
This will be the last time we devote our attention to the Cubs this season, but that doesn’t mean we won’t get back to Wrigley Field this month. With Lorado Taft’s Great Lakes sculpture still under repair at the Art Institute, Wrigley just might be the most placid place in the city right now, an excellent spot for autumnal reverie, a sanctuary of sorts. When I look back on this season, I’ll think of Myers trotting in from the bull pen, of betting a beer that Wilkins couldn’t possibly hit another line drive–and losing–but I’m also liable to take a look around the park and think, yes, this is what this season and almost every season is about for the Cubs: it’s about the game and its sounds and its fans, about the golden glow of the sun on the redbrick buildings on Sheffield and the thoughts that meander through our heads while we’re here–whatever they are –and about those all-too-rare moments when a player does something that demands attention, and about not minding so much when those moments fail to come.
