The Glorious and Irrelevant Wrigley Field Scoreboard

It has been regrettably easy to lose sight of the Cubs in the three years since I moved to Dallas.  While my favorite franchise in all of sports has been sucking wind, I have been trying to justify my flirtation with the suddenly successful Texas Rangers.  Essentially the Rangers are the sexy girl you meet in college, with the Cubs playing the role of the high school sweetheart back home, who - between you and me - isn't helping matters by gaining weight and talking your ear off about the same stupid bullshit.  You're STILL hanging out with Alfonso Soriano?  You're closer STILL walks in the losing run in the ninth?  Jesus, are you ever going to grow up?!?  Whatever, I gotta go.  What??  No, it has nothing to do with the Rangers, we're just friends...

The Rangers and I have had some good times.  They've let me ride along to Division Titles, AL Pennants, and back-to-back World Series appearances.  The only problem is as fun as these successes have been to witness, they aren't mine to celebrate.  I am just a Cubs fan, living vicariously through another long suffering franchise that finally figured it out.  Being a Cub is woven into my DNA, but my son was born in Dallas in a time when the Rangers are the class organization in all of baseball.  He has the chance to cheer for a perennial winner, provided his father doesn't do something asinine like get him hooked on a team whose best shot at the big prize was derailed by a guy in a green turtleneck nine years ago.

Society would be outraged if an obese parent disregarded their child's natural affinity for vegetables and forced Twinkies on them to cultivate a common ground on which to bond.  So why on Earth did total strangers shower me with approving smiles as I carried my three-month-old son into Wrigley Field with a freshly purchased "My 1st Cubs Cap" atop his precious little Texan head?

There are plenty of insults lobbed at Cubs fans from the other side, and nearly all question the fundamental way in which our minds process the game.  South-siders marginalize our historic stadium as The World's Largest Singles Bar - an environment void of genuine passion and fundamental baseball knowledge, replaced by stacked plastic cups previously full of Old Style Beer and the carnal desires that accompany shirtless summertime day-drinking.

The most hurtful criticism, though, is not the one lightly veiled in truth, but backed up by a startling undeniable trend - that it is entirely likely we will spend our natural lives waiting for a championship which will never materialize.  That generations of Cubs fans - generations, plural - have suffered such a cruel fate.

With that harsh reality heavy on my mind, I stood at the street entrance of a parking garage on Addison with my son strapped to my chest, facing away from me, looking onto the diverse madness of Wrigleyville on a gameday, and my hand started to shake slightly.  Not the familiar brew-shakes from standing in line for a tallboy at a packed Murphy's Bleachers, but shakes caused by the question ringing in my head - am I about to condemn my innocent son to a lifetime of miserable heartache?

A comforting answer would reveal itself over the course of a typically beautiful day of predictably ugly baseball.  The results on the diamond are secondary to Cubs fans, at least to this particular family of Cubs fans.  Not second to the pursuit of hook-ups and hangovers, but second to the creation of life-long memories and shared experiences that transcend age, geography, and lifestyle.

The Ron Santo statue at Wrigley Field

We were a regular Chicago street gang making our way from the parking garage to the stadium.  Assuming, of course, intimidating Chicago street gangs consist of babies, toddlers, a pregnant woman, and the gang's patriarch documenting the whole thing on his Blackberry.  I married into a tight-knit nuclear family.  This Cubs game was an aggressive attempt by my in-laws to recreate memorable past outings with their children, with the addition of spouses and grandchildren.

Like many Wrigley Field experiences, this one went by too fast.  I fed my son, held him while he napped, held my niece with my free arm when she decided it was my turn in the rotation, and engaged surrounding fans in conversations about families, hometowns, and which Cubs players were due for a big hit, glancing momentarily at the field to see said players on their way back to the dugout.  Cubs players tend to stay "due" for weeks at a time.

But the lasting impression I will take away from this game was not the home runs the Cubs gave up or the runners they left stranded.  My attention repeatedly drifted back to my in-laws, who may have actually seen less of the game than I did.  They always had a grandchild in their arms, and spent a fair portion of the game smiling at the people in the row behind them when told, once again, their family was beautiful.  There is a look of pride a person gets when congratulated on a job well done.  Those looks pale in comparison to the look my in-laws wore throughout this game.

The question as we left the stadium was not whether or not this was the best experience I've ever had at a ballgame.  It was, and by such a margin I couldn't tell you which game is second place.  As I watched my father-in-law standing under the Ron Santo statue with his granddaughter and walked into the frame with my wife and son, I knew this was among the best days of my life.

Those of us lucky enough to have a comfortable deathbed will likely lay in it watching the Cubs lose while a new generation of opportunistic WGN cameramen lens-bang a new generation of busty 20-somethings who sip beer and occasionally glance toward the field of play, advancing the myth of the party superseding the love of the team.  But then our sons and daughters will take their children to Wrigley Field and share special moments not unlike the memories we created.  It won't matter whether it's been three years or 153 years since the last World Series title because the unique love we share in this beautiful ballpark never has to wait til next year.

The Art of Moving On

Mistakes can be rectified and losses can be rationalized, but grudges are a bitch to shake.  I know this because in my four years as a baseball coach, I made mistakes and lost more games than I care to admit, all of which I have come to terms with.  But four years after being forced to resign, I tend to refer to the school's athletic director and a handful of helicopter parents with a word my wife would not approve of me using here or anywhere else.

Coaching baseball in my early twenties didn't make me the man I am today, but it motivated me to cease being the man I was before I got involved.  It began, appropriately enough, on a friend's couch after a long night of drinking, near fights, and a delightful late night burrito - often the salvation of a sad Friday night routine.  While contemplating the amount of hypothetical money I would pay for a toothbrush and a Gatorade, a friend asked if I would be his assistant coach for 7th grade baseball.  I said yes, provided he could give me a ride to my car.

I didn't arrive at the first practice with any intention of making a real impact, and I certainly didn't expect to be impacted.  I love baseball, but truthfully, I just needed a daily activity for the summer that didn't revolve around a case of cheap domestic beer.

Over the course of the summer I realized something; I didn't simply enjoy coaching, I absolutely loved it.  My connection with the kids inspired me to make improvements in my life.  I didn't want to be someone who demand more of the teens I worked with than I did of myself.  I enrolled at the University to get my degree and started making plans for life after graduation.

Everything was going well as I entered my fourth season with the program.  Our teams made two trips to the state tournament at the junior high level, and in my first season at the high school level, my JV team finished above .500 despite key freshman and sophomores playing at the varsity level due to a lack of upperclassmen.  What our program lacked in experienced talent, we made up for with youth and momentum.  On top of that, one of my best friends was named varsity head coach.

I went into my fourth season with every intention of making it my last.  I was about to graduate and my desire to move was no secret.  I figured I could stick around, and use my familiarity with the existing players to help ease the transition for my friend as he took over the program.  I never imagined the shit show that ensued...

Losses piled up for the varsity team.  Fast.  As things got worse, the best players on my team were called up to try and provide a spark.  The more we lost, the more upset the parents got.  It should be noted, parents are the fucking worst.  Except the ones who liked me, they were cool.

By the end of the season, the varsity team had managed to win only five games.  My team lost more than they won by a fair margin, the roughest stretch around the time a 500 year flood hit Iowa that summer.  That is exactly what it sounds like - a flood, the degree of which is so great there is only a 0.2% chance of it occurring in a given year, and the most appropriate meteorological metaphor for a baseball season in the history of baseball...or water for that matter.

Mistakes were made.  The losses were painful and relentless.  I told people in the off-season I would consider returning for one more year.  I had done some good work and was not too keen on going out a failure.  I am a competitor, and as such I needed to avenge a poor season.  Not to prove it to myself - I knew I was a good coach, still do - but to all the people (read: parents) whose opinions I pretended not to care about.  I did care about their opinions, but apparently my boss cared even more...

The news of my "resignation" was delivered to me by my friend, who was also ousted as head coach.  He met with the AD and she informed him that he would have the option of remaining on the staff in an assistant capacity, but due to some complaints from parents I was not welcome back, and she would appreciate it if he would let me know.

Upon hearing this, I went to the school for an explanation.  She reiterated there had been complaints, though her descriptions were vague and, of course, no names or details were revealed.  Among the complaints that rendered me black-balled after four years of blood, sweat, and tears - some people think you had too much influence on the varsity line-up.

Translation: I am friends with a couple moms that think you're an asshole, so you can't ever coach here again.

After four years - two of which were volunteer - of pouring my heart and soul into the program I was out, for reasons unclear, without the respect of receiving the news first-hand.  Grudge.  Locked.  In.

I met my wife shortly after that final season.  We moved to Dallas and have done some pretty damn cool things over the last four years.  The mistakes I've made have faded from my consciousness and nothing could possibly feel more arbitrary than teenagers losing baseball games in a town of 2,400 people.  But my grudge against a handful of people in that same little town, people that have absolutely no impact on my life, wouldn't subside.  Stupid pride, I suppose.

The lens of fatherhood has given me a fresh perspective on most of my personal interactions.  This personal interaction actually prepared me for how I intend to approach at least one small aspect of fatherhood.  If my son chooses to pursue sports, I will give him as much instruction as I am capable, but my primary role will be as a fan.  Let the coaches coach, because I know how difficult the job is even without unsolicited advice.  All bitterness aside, I am grateful for that lesson.

Driving home the other night I saw a message on my phone stating the program I used to coach had made it to the state tournament, a dream I had shared with them a few short years ago, ultimately replaced by utter disdain.

I was surprised by the feeling the news triggered within me.  I didn't give a damn.  I expected to be jealous or disappointed, maybe even embarrassed that the people who ran me out now had the ultimate scoreboard justification for their actions.  But I didn't feel any of those things.

My family occupies all the space in my mind and heart I had previously wasted on unnecessary anger.  Each and every second I spend with my son is better than the last, and I have no intention of wasting a single opportunity by using that time to look back at past disappointment.

I have no room in my heart for grudges.  That space is spoken for.

So, what the hell - Go Bears!