More or Less Even

I've seen 24 Cubs games so far this year. They're outscoring their opponents 111-103, but have a 10-14 record. Why is this? The plain truth is, Dusty Baker can't construct a lineup to save his life.

Granted, the Cubs have had to deal with an insane number of injuries over the past two years. The Cubs had a stellar lineup going into this year. But, with a few exceptions, every team goes into every year looking pretty good. It's the manager's job to iron out the difficulties posed by unforseen injuries and baseball's long season.

Dusty has done an absolutely terrible job of performing these essential managerial tasks this season. If he was doing a great job, over the 24 games I've seen in person (a reasonably good sample of the entire year--about 25% of games) the Cubs should be a game or two up, instead two games down. If Dusty were a good manager--not even a great manager, mind you--they should win more games even given a higher runs/runs-allowed differential.

Tonight he finally showed some sense by unshackling Michael Barrett from the 8 hole, bumping him up to 6th in the order. Why in the world he had Barrett, who has more than enough potential to hit .290 and drive in 80+ runs, buried at the bottom of the lineup is beyond me. Traditionally, of course, the catcher has been viewed as little more than the pitcher in protective gear--a defensive specialist whose offensive production is a secondary evaluation in considering value. (Every generation, of course, has exceptions to this rule of thumb, such as Bench, Berra, and Piazza.) If the catcher is a high-average, doubles-to-the-wall type of hitter, why not move him to the middle of the lineup, where he'll have more at-bats per year, and have a greater potential of driving in top-of-the-order guys with their higher probabilitis of getting on base?

If Neifi Perez and Derrek Lee (and, since May 1, Aramis Ramirez and Jeromy Burnitz) hadn't played perfect baseball nearly every day, Dusty would be fired at this point. The Cubs have thrived on pure luck to stay slightly above .500 with half the season gone. With Baker's approach to lineup construction, they should be 10 games under, and we should be looking forward to upcoming off-season moves, not a run at the playoffs.

Let's face it: the Cubs are going to be really tough with Wood and Prior back. Even though they're prone to injury, at least they won't pitch hurt. This is partially a problem, that they refuse to pitch except when they feel perfect. But, when those two are perfect, there are few pitchers in either league who can match their control over the outcome of a game. I hope they got all the bullshit out of their systems and bear down for the rest of their starts. If the Cubs can hang on the next two weeks while waiting for 1 and 1a to get back to full strength, they should win the Wild Card and, I would argue, make it very, very difficult for the Cardinals to repeat a division title.

Barring any further injury, using the players currently on the team or on the disabled list, the Cubs 25-man roster would look something like the following come the playoff time:

1 Patterson 8
2 Perez/Nomar 6
3 DLee 3
4 Ramirez 5
5 Burnitz 9
6 Barrett 2
7 Walker 4
8 Dubois/Holly 7
Bench: Hairston 4/8, Macias 5/6, Blanco 2, Wilson 4/6
SP: Wood, Prior, Zambrano, Maddux, Williams
LRP: Rusch (L), Mitre
MRP: Wuertz, Novoa/Wellemeyer, Ohman/Bartosh (L)
CP: Dempster

Honestly, I don't think that the above line-up necessarily warrants a trade. Aside from the injuries, the media has pounced on two points of weakness with the current team: the enigmatic Corey Patterson, and the supposed void in left field represented by Dubois and Hollandsworth.

Let's first examine the status of Patterson. This is a case of talent mismanagement possibly unmatched in sports history. Although he's been up for a while, Corey's still a very young player. He needs direction, and he needs to be told his role by management. From the first day of Spring Training, Baker should have established Patterson as the Cubs lead off guy and let him work it out. He's the fastest guy on the team, and with the exception of Pierre, Podsednik, Renteria, and a couple others, one of the fastest in either league. With his speed and instincts, this guy should have been told from Day One, "Get on base any way possible, and wreak havoc on the basepaths." Instead, he has as many stolen bases as Jeromy Burnitz, a pretty slow power hitter. That's pathetic. Now it's June, and we're expected to wait a few dozen at-bats for Patterson to get used to hitting first. We should have gotten over those growing pains in April. What a wasted opportunity.

As far as left field goes, a statistical comparison is in order:

AB H TB R BI BB K
Holly 174 45 68 15 22 12 34
Dubois 133 33 65 14 22 7 47
H+B 307 78 133 29 44 19 81
Burnitz 287 79 136 44 42 25 52

Burnitz is having a great year, there's no question about it. He's playing better than Sosa did for the last 2 years, and certainly better than Sosa is currently playing for the Orioles. His greatness is exemplified in what I call my Efficiency Index (EI): R + RBI = H. When a player is driving in and scoring a number of runs equal to his number of hits, he is performing as efficiently as can be reasonably expected. (This theory double-counts runs and RBIs scored as a result of home runs, but I think the minor variance more than makes up for the number of times the batter was stranded on base--in other words, the number of time the guys gets on base but other guys don't get their job done is balanced by the number of times the guy hits a homer.) By this measure, Burnitz has scored and driven in 84 runs compared to 79 hits--5 runs more than efficient. The Cubs' two left fielders, by contrast, have managed to score and drive in 73 runs compared to 78 hits--5 runs less than efficient.

Blaming Hollandsworth and Dubois for the Cubs' woes is preposterous. They are essentially interchangeable with the glove and arm-wise, though neither will ever compete for a Gold Glove. In terms of intangibles, I think it's important for the Cubs to have Dubois--a homegrown prospect--come up and get some day-to-day experience. Hollandsworth brings the club an attitude of professionalism and hustle that is second to none. Given their slightly weak bats, I don't see why Baker refuses to bat them at the bottom of the lineup. If they're going to put up average (but not impotent) offensive numbers, let them do it from the bottom slot, not the six hole as has been the case all year (until tonight).

The Cubs offensive woes lie in the ineffectiveness of the power spots. In particular, batting Burnitz clean-up behind Lee is a joke. I don't understand why Burnitz hasn't batted either second or fifth all year, allowing Lee and Ramirez to hammer away from the power slots. Burnitz either strikes out, pops out, hits a homer, or doubles. In my observations, he does not tend to ground out to the middle or hit singles to the short outfield. Given these tendencies, a lead-off hitter should be protected from a potentially lethal double play situation and should further be likely to score if on base. From the five hole, Burnitz would provide Ramirez with as much protection as he currently does to Lee. By batting either Corey-ShortStop-Lee-Aramis-Burnitz or Corey-Burnitz-Lee-Ramirez-ShortStop, you're forcing a pitcher to face two lefty bats in pretty short order, which is more often than not bound to cause gameplan problems for any opposing staff.

For the six hole, you really need a guy who gets a lot of singles and the occasional home run, a guy who can get a few RBIs now and again, someone who consistently makes contact to all fields. You would ideally have a left-handed batter, to contribute to the unbalance created by the two lefties batting earlier in the order. Don't look now, but I just described Todd Walker. Why this guy doesn't play every single day, I'll never know. You can't tell me that Hairston's slight advantage in the speed department, or Enrique Wilson's..I don't know what...override the natural advantages presented by Walker's skills. Also, he's a far, far superior routine defender than the other two, and he's excellent at turning double play balls.

I think that's it for now. There's more--oh, you know there's always more. This is just the crap that I thought about tonight during tonight's 2-0 win over Milwaukee. Amazingly, they won a close game with little offense for either side. Basically, Zambrano won the game by keeping it simple and DLee hit a big homer, while Doug Davis got the loss because he walked two guys in the same inning. It was an interesting game because of the timing of walks and wild pitches, but that's about it. I really love that type of game, when everything ends more or less even. Unfortunately, more or less even is exactly how this year's Cubs have performed thus far. Here's to more productive times to come.

A Totally Useless Post

I have nothing to say right now.

Random Thought of the Day

Maybe I don't want to see the day, but do you think anyone will ever eulogize a fallen soldier (or, anyone else on the news, for that matter) with something really terrible but true?

"He was a junkie."

"He left me with six kids and no money."

"The probation officer said, "It's either the military or jail.' Wonder if he'd have survived jail..."

"He never had one nice thing to say about anybody."

"Children used to cross the street to avoid him."

"He loved to mug old ladies."

Random Thought of the Day

The vast majority of people seem to be alone driving their cars, so wouldn't it make sense to have really small cars--tiny little one-seat jobs with a little trunk on the back, like souped-up motorcycles? And, why aren't cars made of a pliable material, such as rubber?

The Worst Night Ever

I woke up and hadn't slept well. I've had...issues...the last couple of days. Like, I've been crapping my brains out, and it's the definite worst.

At first I thought it was the tacos I had with the Mexican guys up at the golf course earlier in the week. Seemed like a plausible explanation. But I have a pretty resilient stomach when it comes to tacos. Granted, God only knows what grade-D beans were used in said tacos. I can still handle it. I'm a Mexican food fiend.

Then I remembered a couple nights earlier--I think it was Tuesday--I woke with a start, and wondered if I'd cleaned out a dip before I fell asleep. I don't know why I do it. I really like the taste, I guess that's it. I go on and off with it, even though I know it's gross and so bad for you and all that stuff. I happened to be on it at that time, but I'm officially off it now, and you're about to hear why.

I remember throwing one in at about 12 and reading in bed. When I woke up at 3, I had dip taste in my mouth but there was no tobacco present. I remember thinking in a very vague way that I had cleaned it out, but maybe I was just dreaming that I had cleaned it out.

Fast forward to today, Saturday.

I'm very tired of crapping my brains out. Not only is it a horrendous style cramp, but that sort of thing tends to drain you of every last ounce of energy. I've been disappeared in the damn crapper for significant chunks of the last three days, and I'm exhausted and look like death. It sucks.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't get drag myself out of my apartment until almost 9:30. I got a paper and coffee, and hit the road. By the time I got to Wisconsin, I was ready to pop. My dad and grandpa were already hanging around, and they completely did not expect to see me. As I sprinted past them, Sun-Times tucked under my arm, I explained that I was in bad, bad shape, and briefly explained my predicament. They understood completely and thankfully didn't bitch that I was 3 hours late for work.

My dad and grandpa went to the bank to take care of a very simple thing that had been put off for some time. Meanwhile, I read almost the entire paper in the bathroom. When I got out, I got a call from my dad saying that I also had to go to the bank to sign some papers. I supposed that the bank would have the papers ready to be signed when I got there a half hour later. I was wrong.

In the course of exhausting all possible topics of bullshit chit-chat with the four old and bored Wisco bank clerks, I knew the pain would soon rear its ugly head. I stood there as still as a statue, praying to God they'd get on with it. Mindy, however, was really interested in some moronic administrative quirkiness about our account, and she launched into a detailed discussion with the other three ladies about it. Sure enough, as she droned on and on, I found myself summoning every ounce of energy in my body to resist a painful and messy ass-plosion. They were oblivious to the fact that I was sweating profusely, tapping my fingers on the counter, and softly grunting in pain. I signed the papers and walked out of there quickly yet very, very gingerly.

After another breeze-through of the Sun-Times on the crapper, I hung out at the club house for a couple hours more, then took off during the fourth inning of the Cubs game. They'd just gone down 2-0 and I couldn't take their bad brand of baseball any longer. I hopped into my car and took the tollway to our car wash, where I immediately dove into the bathroom. At three different points during my extended toilet stay, customers started knocking like hell against the door, forcing me to scream, "Fuck off! Use the ladies' room!" They don't know I'm one of the owners, or how much pain I was in, so screw them.

I decided to take the Edens Expressway home, which quickly proved to be a huge mistake. I got on at Lake, and off at Old Orchard--the very next exit, about a mile down the road. The highway was like a parking lot, another crowded Saturday afternoon. Welcome to the summer. (Welcome to always.) If traffic on the highway really sucks, I usually get off and go further east, over to Sheridan Road/Lake Shore Drive, because it's a more scenic trip into the city.

While the scenery was nice, the car in front of me was not. I got stuck behind a slow moving douche. Take. Through the entire city of Evanston. Double take. It was a white limo, called Black's Service. Triple take.

Once I got around the limo on the curve at Calvalry Cemetary, things opened up until about North Avenue. It turns out that the Taste of Chicago set-up started in earnest that morning. More crappy luck. Traffic had slowed to a crawl on the Drive and Michigan Avenue, and I was cramping up bad. I turned off at Michigan and used the Bellevue turn, which may or not be illegal (hey--there's no sign), thereby avoiding most of the jam-up. I ditched the car in the garage and sprinted upstairs, straight to...you know where...the crapper for about an hour.

I finally left my place at about three hours later, after showering and cramping some more. The Red Line was right on time and I hopped off at Fullerton. I decided to wait at the platform to take the the Brown Line one stop to Diversey. The damn train didn't come forever. At some point, waiting for the train becomes self-fulfilling. The longer you wait, the closer you are to a train. If you wait beyond the length of the walk, it doesn't really matter, because you're just blowing time either way. I used to think that waiting for the train is the worst, but actually waiting for the train while coping with wrenching stomach pains is much, much, MUCH worse.

The train came, I walked down Diversey, and Al, my buddy in Mad Town, called just as I walked up to my buddy Sheehan's townhouse. Al happened to be out on the links at his country club, and he had two insane stories to share: one about getting a ticket for spitting out of a cab (I wasn't aware that that was a crime in and of itself--only in communist Wisco), the other about his getting assaulted and wounded in a nasty bar altercation. (The more I think about it, the more I realize that Madison is a really, really dangerous place to be a drunk.) It was a great story, but I was already at Sheehan's, so I told Al to call me tomorrow with more details.

Sheehan and I are the only two of my crew of high school best friends who are currently in Chicago. There are six of us, and we're still very close, but we moved for different reasons. Basically, we're either here or not here because of family, though one of us is elsewhere mostly because of greed.

Tonight was our 10 year high school reunion, and we ditched it like complete losers. I would have gone if Sheehan wanted to go, but I knew he really didn't want to. So we decided to go out for dinner and drinks on our own.

I was pretty tired but still happy to be out. We sat in the back garden of Witt's, a cool neighborhood spot on Lincoln. Sheehan decided without reservation that it wasn't the tacos, but the dip, that was responsible for my wrenching stomach pains. He could sense that I was uncomfortable, but I really wanted the night to rock, as I had pledged myself to hooking up this weekend. So I ordered a Red Bull and vodka as a pick me up, though I was drinking really slowly for no good reason. Mistaking my initial Red Bull order as a cue that I was going to get rocked in a hurry, Sheehan ordered round after round after round of Bell's Oberon, which is like the beer equivalent of high-octane gasoline. As far as I remember, the alcohol content is in the 8% range, so it's really like drinking two beers for every one. Sheehan drinks regular beer at an alarming pace--roughly twice the rate of the average man--and there's no reason why overly-boozy beer would be any different.

It was nice outside, a little chilly for June, but clear and agreeable. I watched in horror as the White Sox came back to score 3 runs in the 9th inning to beat the Dodgers, 5-3. Plus, it was A.J. Pierzynski getting the job done--Sheehan hates him as much as I do. It's not that I hate him because he's on the White Sox; I hate him because he's a dickhead.

Sheehan was pretty darn blasted when 10 o'clock rolled around. He decided he was cold and insisted on going inside after we ate. I was pretty comfy and enjoy having drinks outside, but I didn't care too much either way, so we headed in...and I immediately took a detour straight into the crapper. It was a completely unsatisfying and halted affair, because I could hear people out in the bar having a good time while I was kicking myself for swallowing a fucking dip and doing this to myself. I was beyond irritated at that point with the entire situation. I had no control over what was coming out of my body, I couldn't get in a good groove to put things into my body, and my best friend had the equivalent of about fourteen regular beers in about two hours. Things were looking pretty grim.

I walked out of the bathroom to find that many more people had showed up. Sweet. Oooh, three girls were sitting at a table, drinking vodkas, looking really bored. Lambs, welcome to the slaughter. One of them asked me as I walked by if the Cubs had won (they lost to the Yankees 8-1--glad I didn't go out there after all), and I knew she could be mine with little effort. No-brainer, right? Sure fire? Wrong. Dead wrong.

When I sidled back to the bar, I fully intended to tell Sheehan we were moving over to the girls' table. Instead, I found him inquiring of the bartender as to why they didn't have any ABBA discs behind the bar, and stating in earnest that their brand of Swedish disco was the best thing in their now-removed jukebox. (I didn't know this, but apparently a city bar license allows for just three machines that accept money--in this case a Golden Tee, a quiz machine, a cig machine--so the jukebox had to go. Tavern licenses, on the other hand, can have whatever they want, relatively speaking.) Then, to my surprise, Sheehan started belting out some retarded ABBA song, and I realized that our prospects with the girls were shrinking fast though still recoverable. But when Sheehan demanded an obscure Rolling Stones song called "Slave," which caused him to hump the air and scream the words, "Do it, do it, do it, don't want to be your slave!" He was completely plastered, and getting worse by the minute.

Just then, memories of meeting up with Sheehan at Witt's after the Friday Cubs-White Sox game a couple weekends before. I've know him for 14 years, and he swears he'd never seen me so drunk in my entire life. If I could remember anything from that day after 4 o'clock, it would have made a great What I See entry. But I was far too hammered to retain anything except for brief flashes of memories. One of these is of Sheehan's arrival at the bar, just an image of his silhouette standing there in the doorway. He said that I was standing up on top of the bar, with a smoke in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, screaming at the top of my lungs about nothing in particular, with four empty shotglasses and a pint glass full of ice at my feet. Sheehan said the two girls working that afternoon were huddled near the door, debating if they should call the cops on me. They said to him, "Oh, he's yours? OK, he can stay." I then ordered each of us two Jaeger shots, two Jaeger Bombs, and two Miller Lites, and amazingly the girls complied. I later threw pizza all over the place, and was ultimately asked to leave because I was terrifying the other customers. It's kind of awesome, but I can't help but be a little bit embarassed about it.

Back in the present day, one of the girls sitting at the bar was pretty and looked vaguely familiar. She kept giving me these strange looks, and I thought about going over to introduce myself. But first, I had to know. I asked Sheehan, "Were any of these people working on the drunkest night of my life?" He replied, "Oh yeah, Paddy, sure. That one (pointing to a girl behind the bar), and that one (pointing to the girl at the bar, the one giving me weird looks)." Well, that explains it. I'd been there for like three hours at that point, and all the while the staff was on guard against some insane man-beast ready to bubble over at any second--the resurrection of Darth Pat. I thought about apologizing for bad behavior, but how to word it? "Thanks for delivering a non-stop flow of shots onto my already throbbing liver. Thanks for not having me arrested. Thanks for letting me back in here." I ignored the awkwardness, and started tipping double.

We were sitting on barstools facing a large mirror behind the bar, with the hot girls behind us, and we could clearly see them over our shoulder. They kept looking in our general direction, visibly scared of Sheehan, and I thought I might kill him for getting so drunk so quickly. Fuck Oberon! Sheehan's bloodshot-red eyes were fixed on the girls' reflection in the mirror, to the point that he was outright oogling them. The low point came when he stood up and, continuing to look at them in the mirror, said, "I just gotta check out their boods."

One of the girls came over to order three more drinks, blatantly looked at me, clearly begging for conversation, then glanced at Sheehan with a considerable degree of confusion as to how the guy was so hammered before midnight. At that instant, right when any cheese-dick pick up line would have been awesomely effective, Sheehan started with his ABBA singing-dancing-screaming routine again. While never known for his level of gamesmanship, he'd somehow reached a new low: This time, we didn't even get to the point of asking their names. The anti-Spanish fly strikes again.

(Sidebar: Sheehan actually admitted that he was trying to make it an early night on purpose because he had to go to his parents' house tomorrow. Seeing as it was Father's Day, every person in that bar was probably due to be somewhere on Sunday, so why not join the crowd and stay out all night, myabe get some ass, and who cares about sleep? I asked him if he had some appointment or if it was the world's first breakfast barbeque, but he was insistent that he had to be there at, apparently, the ass-crack of dawn. I told him that he could take a walk with his mom after dinner, but he refused to hear me out, even though the girls were so so so hot. Hot girls, you lost out to a non-binding start time for sitting around in the suburbs all day. What-the-fuck-ever. If I were him...well, I'm not, so I'll move on.

I considered for a moment letting him make the three block walk home alone, but I needed to go back to his house so I could use the bathroom in earnest. Along the way home he sang some fucked up New Wave song word-for-word; I told him that I never really liked Molly Ringwald movies, and where on earth did he find a CD containing all this shit music? We got to his house and I told him to play some tunes, to keep him awake so that he could lock up behind me after I finished crapping. At that point, I fully expected to go back to the table of girls. My line was going to be: "Hey, I'm Pat. My buddy just stranded me so damn early. Wanna adopt me for the night?" They would have loved it.

As if the night wasn't already devoid of any semblence of cool, Sheehan chose to blast a George Michael song--the one with all the supermodels in the video. Oh sweet mother of take! That turned out to be the soundtrack to my painful pit stop, and in a way I guess it was kind of fitting because that song is absolute shit. I walked out of the bathroom and told him that the only cool thing about that song was the video if you had the t.v. on mute, and I registered my disgust that he had a George Michael CD in the first place. We had a cig outside before I took off, and he promised to never drink Oberon again. I didn't believe him.

I started walking back toward Witt's, and I called my buddy Rick to see if he was in the city. He was sitting at home in Oak Park. No one seemed to be in the city. Lincoln Park felt so damn dead tonight, except for those three hot ladies at Witt's. Ah well.

One block away from Witt's, a brain freeze sturck me: Even though the girls were probably interested in getting laid, there was no way I could ever hook up with one of them at that moment in time. I envisioned myself taking my clothes off and rocking her world with an aggravated ass-reek from my boxers. That would have been a tough one to get around or cover up. I'm not saying I had poop in my pants, but it sure as fuck wasn't Downy-fresh down there. Plus, let's assume we fooled around for a while. Would I have excused myself the second we were done to disappear into the bathroom for an hour? How weird would that be? And what if I bombed out her place with a ridiculous gas bomb? I didn't want to find out how I might handle such a situation, and resigned myself to accept that all of my self-confidence had literally been flushed down the drain hours ago.

Defeated, I turned around and walked back to the Diversey stop. The Brown Line stops running at 1:08. It was 1:12. Even more pissed at the situation, I got in a cab and went home. I thought about going for a night cap at a local bar, but it didn't seem like it was worth it, given how bad my ass was twitching.

So now, as I sit here typing this, drinking a beer, having a smoke, I can't help but reflect on the three principal lessons learned from this episode:

1.) Sheehan is not allowed to drink Bell's Oberon any more. That shit is like a liquid fucking wrecking ball.

2.) No more dipping in bed. If I ever have to endure this again, I'm going to kill myself.

3.) Never ditch organized events, because they've got to be better than nothing at all.

And, by the way, if you happen to know or be those three hot girls who were hanging out at Witt's on Lincoln Saturday around midnight, please go back there much more often, because that place is generally lacking girls as hot as you. Also, I want all three of you naked and covered in baby oil in my bed immediately.

So there you have it: The anatomy of the worst night ever.

Random Thought of the Day

Jennifer Lopez was on Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton. Think about that for a second. JHo? What did she talk about? The depths of emotions required to play a maid in some cheese-dick date movie? Or how big of a stretch it was for some Mexican singer-dancer to play...a Mexican singer-dancer? Her acting experience is about as impressive as an infected wart on a pig's nuts.

If JHo can be on a show about serious acting, anything's possible. And that's really scary when you get down to it. Think about this: someone some day is probably going to produce a dramatic recreation of the behind-the-scenes story of really cheesy, crappy shows, like Full House or the Jamie Foxx Show. People are going to get paid to do that. What the fuck is wrong with pop culture?

I Never Looked Away

I hate dwelling on things. That being said, it one of those inevitable things, especially for Cubs fans.

Tonight the Cubbies were terrible against the Marlins, dropping a 9-1 sleeper, thanks to a positively disastrous fifth inning and the amazing (and former Cub prospect) Dontrelle Willis. It was like they weren't even trying. It was painful to behold, but I get a little more used to it every time it happens.

I didn't want to think about it but, given the circumstances, Bartman is bound to loom large for as long as the Cubs face the Marlins. It's going to be that way for the rest of my life, and I won't ever forget about it.

I went from being a huge die-hard fan to harboring a serious baseball addiction during the summer of 2003. I was wrapping up grad school, with night classes three times per week, allowing me to attend around dozens of weekday afternoon games and still have plenty of time to shower up before class. That was the first year my family resumed Cubs season tickets, having unanimously voted to drop our Blackhawks ticket package. (People will crawl over dead bodies for Wrigley box seats, even if the team sucks; the state of the Blackhawks is so nauseating, we literally couldn't give the tickets away for nothing for the previous few years.) Before they made the playoffs, I had a feeling that they were going to be really good, but they seemed to have snuck up on most people. As a result, I more often than not bought the tickets day-of-game over the Internet. That was when I fell in love with the upper deck again--for $12, you couldn't beat it. (We had seasons in the u.d. for a couple years when I was younger, but I'd been locked into a downstairs-only groove during high school and college.) In short, going to Cubs games became the overwhelming activity of my summer.

Where were you when the collapse happened? Everybody remembers it, at least everybody I ever talked to. I was about 100 feet away from the tempest--not just Bartman, but the third base line--the heart of it all--I bet I was on national t.v. five times that night. I was sitting 10 feet from Rudy Giuliani. He signed my scorecard and me and my siblings took a picture with him. Rudy might be president one day, but everytime I look at that picture...I'll always remember that disaster.













Minutes before the collapse, with one out in the eighth and Mark Prior on cruise control, my mom began rummaging through her purse. "What are you doing, mom?" I asked. "Getting my camera out. I want to get a picture of you crying when they win." I froze in shock, as the reality of a World Series at Wrigley Field loomed perhaps twenty minutes into the future. My eyes teared up a bit, and my brother and sister hugged each other. Then came...that damn routine double play ground ball. I remember pumping my fist when I saw it was headed right to Gonzalez, looking up to see Grudzielanek running over to cover second, then the ball inexplicably bouncing out of Gonzo's glove. (He also blew his chances of winning the Gold Glove. He had a regular season fielding percentage of .984 with 5 errors. Eventual winner Edgar Renteria of the despised Cardinals was .974 with 16 errors. Stats apparently do lie.) I remember thinking right then that I might start puking. The air seemed to suck out of the place, and everything fell silent. They should have been out of the inning; instead, play went on. Prior was visably flustered after that play. That was the end.

I couldn't actually see the Bartman ball because of where I was sitting. Our season tickets are between third base and the bullpen's home plate, in the first row of section 110. Everybody in Wrigley was standing for each and every pitch at that point, which made it kind of tough to see every bit of the action. I remember catching a glimpse of Alou getting a good jump after hearing contact, and I assumed from the path of the ball that he could make a play on or near the wall. I saw the ball as it arced up and started down, but I lost sight of it at the last second as my sightline became obscured by heads. I heard a huge roar, and then a great flurry of activity on the field. I looked for my new favorite plays and saw Aramis throw his head back in disgust. I saw Sosa and Lofton run toward the field with their arms in the air. I remember seeing Prior point at Bartman and could read his lips, "That's fan interference." In a perfect world, it would have been. Then the hit parade started, and Baker inexplicably let Prior keep at it.

By the fifth hit of the inning, I felt like I was going to cry. I started to walk toward the stairway, and nobody even seemed to notice. I leaned against a pillar at the 110-111 concession stand and started chain smoking--faster than I ever had in my life. That's when I first saw the tape of the Bartman incident. I could have hunted him down and killed him with my bare hands. My face assumed a scowl. I stopped keeping score, and to this day I cannot bring myself to look at it or fill in the blanks. It was over.

I have no sympathy for Bartman, not even an inkling. Weak-ass people argue that any fan would have gone for the ball, that everyone wants a souvenir from a game. The players backed this reasoning because, I think, they didn't have any choice but to recite what the company recommended to them. If you asked any of those guys off the record what they thought about that play, they'd say that the company line was a load of crap, that they were disgusted. You can argue that he was one of many fans who reached out for the ball, but that doesn't mean that all those jackasses should get off scot-free. Those fucks should have respected where they were sitting and gotten the hell out of the way.

Something unique happened that night; it was beyond disappointment. I haven't gotten over it, really. I think about it every time I go near Wrigley, or even if I'm watching the Cubs on TV. I think I have become some sort of Cubs ghost--I'm haunting the park, waiting for the return of the sweet feeling that I was afforded for a few fleeting seconds, with just five outs to go, ready to explode in a rush of pure joy and elation into the cool fall air. Addiction or obsession don't even come close to capturing what the hunger for that feeling actually feels like. And it was those awful black, grey and teal uniforms of the Florida team that took it from me. How can I not remember that? Every time I'm in Florida, I think about it. Most every time I think about Florida in any capacity, it comes to mind. They robbed our great city of something that their franchise will never really appreciate.

Suddenly, everyone was really anxious, as though Cubs Nation had become a gaggle of little kids because of the playoffs: "Do it again! Do it again! Do it again!" The crowds at Wrigley would get all tensed up on every routine pop out to third. Every passed ball or stolen base was treated like the biggest thing since the color t.v. We thought they should win, therefore it didn't happen. It's no wonder they were so dysfunctional last year--they never really got around to playing good baseball, because the pressure of expectation haunted them from the get-go.

Even though it's only mid-June, it seems like people have given up on these guys already. Cubs fans are so manic--it's either all or nothing--we're either the best or we're crap. The reality of the game is, the best teams aren't completely overwhelming--they manage to be just a little bit better than the other guy most of the time. I have hope because they seem to have struck a balance within those two factors: the Cubs seem to be just a little bit more talented than most teams I've seen, and nobody seems to expect great things from them, what with all the injuries. I'm not counting them out just yet. Their bullpen has finally firmed up; Hendry is a genius and will make a trade; and Wood, Prior and Nomar are expected back at some point this year.

At tonight's game, some two-and-a-half years after the Bartman incident, I insisted that my broker hook me up with a seat on the first base side, on the opposite side of the park as my position that terrible night. But the torrent of singles and doubles, also with one out in the inning, just made me want to puke--even if it was the fifth inning as opposed to the eighth.

One of the most faith-inspiring songs I've ever heard is Genesis by Hot Tuna. There's a line that goes, "And when we walked into the day / Skies of blue had turned to grey / I might not have been quite clear to say / I never looked away." Well, tonight I didn't go downstairs until my usual fifth inning smoke break. I watched every last out, and though I am getting better at handling the regular disappointments of watching the Cubs lose, I still couldn't think about how crappy that asshole Bartman still makes me feel. I'm still going to wait and watch to see if they can do it again, because when the Cubs finally do win the World Series, it's going to be better than the best.

Don't ghosts linger until the wrong that's associated with their past is ameliorated one way or another? If I am around when they finally do win it all, I might just quit going to games all together--I'm serious. I know that I'll never feel as elated by any other sporting event for as long as I live, Maybe I as a ghost of Wrigley Field will finally feel like I can let go. But, win or lose, I'll always think of pain when I see the Marlins.

BoSox Saturday

From: PVCNova@aol.com
To: [The Meats]
Date: Sun, 12 Jun 2005 04:34:57 -0400


i had one of those nights tonight was that was basically this: "f me! chicago is SO F'ING SWEET in the summer!"

i woke up still wobbly (ask sully--we were positively over-served the night before). the cubs-red sox game was awesome. el jardin for dinner. bernie's with my parents for a few (?!). sheffield's, and i saw andy hollinger who's sprouted a deep red beard. what a guy.

old town art fair (more like, old town oh-my-fookin-god-the-hotties-finally-came-out AND THEY'RE HALF-NAKED ALL OVER WELLS fair! some awesome party in old town, on menomenee, that tricked you into thinking you're in g'town or europe. sedgwicks and red bulls. kincaids and beers. my sister puking on an impala; my brother puking in a cab. home at last.

finally, at last, summer...

everything feels so f'ing perfect during the summer. you could throw a bucket of poop in my face, but i'll get over it in two seconds because, "did you see that girl's thong line? the one with the white pants?" i love it.

what i mean to get at is, bundle up your poonies and get out here! chicago summer is full on, and you mofos know it's the best you could ask for.

by the way (or is this supporting evidence?) i have a picture, at this very moment, of a nude girl who i can "have" in return for certain party favors. come on, that's awesome! her name is liz, and four of five of you might nail her someday (sorry tommy.)

chicago in the summer. i'm not kidding--i'm scared for myself!

A Typically Strange Conversation

"Hello, this is Bill Sheehan."

"Yo," I said. "What up dog?" I love catching my best friend off guard at work. He's used to getting some serious conversation, and instead he gets his alter-ego.

"Not too much Paddy. How you doin'?"

"Good, good. Listen, this Big East boat cruise that's comin' up in a couple weeks...you down?"

Billy paused. "What boat cruise? I haven't heard a thing about it." Of course he hadn't. Forget being in the loop; Sheehan's subconscious refuses to acknowledge that the loop even exists.

"Forty-five bucks, all you can drink. Two hour cruise, leaves from North Pier at 6:30 four weeks from this past Wednesday. It's fifty if we wait 'til day-of. What do you think? We can get drunk and make fun of people we haven't seen in a while. It's fun, I went a couple years ago."

I knew what was coming--that should go without saying. I've got years of experience at this.

"Geez, Paddy, I dunno. Big East? I'm not going to know anybody there."

"William," I say, reading from the script of this very same conversation we've had every single year for the last six since we finished college, "Notre Dame IS in the Big East, remember? They've been in the Big East for basketball for like ten years, you'll know people there, trust me dude. Plus there's tons of kids from the Academy"

"Oh, there's going to be N.D. people there?" Pause. "Well then, fuck no, I'm DEFINITELY not going if there's N.D. people there."

"So you weren't going to go because you thought you wouldn't know anybody, but now you don't want to go because you might know people?"

"Yeah, something like that. Plus, it's a school night."

"But it's over by 8:30, you can be home before 9. Food, open bar, nice breeze, the strong possibility of freshly graduated nubile ass to grab. Plus, it's the summertime man! Cut loose a little!" Easy for me to say: I don't have one damn thing close to resembling responsibility in my life right now.

"Nah, Paddy, doesn't sound like my cup of tea. Count me out," he said.

I should be used to this sort of drivel by now, but it still really pisses me off. It's a step on the way to ultimate success. I know that my best friend will decline any and all invitations at first, but eventually I'll succeed. C'mon, is it a hard sale to begin with? "Let's go get drunk as hell on a floating bar!" I refuse to admit defeat until the event has passed, but that's irrelevant. He's getting his sorry ass to the party.

"All right, keep it in mind and let me know if you want to go," I said. "See ya."

I MIGHT have said something quasi-defeatist, but f that! The seed has been planted; that's all that was necessary. I excel at being a bad infuluence. I'm like the devil on everyone's shoulder, but mostly people thank me for it after the fact.

(Postscript: We ended up not going to the boat cruise anyway, as Sheehan knew what I was calling about and didn't pick up his phone. Take, Paddy!)

Random Thought of the Day

Sitting here, battling insomnia, thinking that a little channel surfing might help. Innocently, I turn to ABC. Know what's on ABC at 2:28a.m.? The Tony Danza Show. Know who Tony's visiting with on this edition of his crap talk show? Michael Bolton.

There is a new level of hell.

What I Do All Day

This question has been asked an awful lot of me lately, so I'll attempt to answer it. "A Day in the Life of Unemployed Young Guy", if you will.

Waking up usually comes first, though this is not always the case. The ole "I slept-walked through the morning/I think I'm still drunk" routine comes along every now and again, but it's too late to do anything about that sort of thing before it's too late. So, it's best to go ahead and get out of bed before tackling most skilled morning tasks, such as shaving.

Before I even think about any sort of grooming or robing, I am required by programming to flip through the t.v. channels, read my email and Reuters Online, check my bank balances, and smoke a butt. (I express the right to extend any of the individual components to this process at my discretion.) Occasionally this step includes cleaning up the wake of the previous night, or previous nights, though most mornings it does not. Also, 9 times out of 10, I find it beneficial to stick my arm out the window to see how the weather is. Then, it's time to shower, followed by whatever the day brings.

Today, for example, I endured a rather extended "first thing in the morning" episode. It included listening to a dozen saved voicemails (important phone numbers nestled amongst funny messages), and filtering a long string of emails from my buddies (the uncovering of Deep Throat, followed by a Republican buddy trying to bait the lefties amongst us).

At noon, I heard my brother coming in.

"Hey. What's with all the cups?" I said with a nod to his stack of Starbucks cups.

"Yo. Wha? Just watch, it's for my tea," came the reply. He had on his terminator glasses and looked like he was ready to take care of some serious shit...like making his perfectly iced tea. "Green tea," he said. "This is how you gotta do it. Watch."

He set up what was for all intents and purposes an assembly line of cups--three to be exact. One of the paper cups was filled to the brim with ice. The other had a lid on it and, presumably, the teabags. He said something about letting the tea brew, but then he began to make a series of movements which the cups that no martini bar waiter could duplicate.

After some pouring and shaking, he left the tea sitting in all the different cups for a little while, as we bullshat about one thing or another. He went into his backpack and pulled out one of those Nalgene bottles and unscrewed the lid.

"I love this shit, dude. Green tea. All the antioxidants. It's so good for you." He held up the bottle, and I sort of snickered. "Do you pay the water bill in here? What's with the shower? I can't take that running water. I might not be out here when you get done."

Of course he was sitting there after I got dressed. I didn't ask him why he was being a bit of a dick back there, but I ignored it. He was sitting there drinking the tea out of the bottle.

I made him listen to a couple job-related phone calls, so he could report back to my parents to lay the fuck off. I lined up an interview with a small marketing company, and got a bad report on the Wall Street hiring outlook. Screw the Street anyway. I was much more excited to talk to the girl at the marketing company (she sounds pretty cute--don't they always?).

After phone hour, my brother said he wanted to buy a case for his new Vaio at the Sony store and check out chicks. Game on. First, though, I had to make my own Starbucks run.

We ran down there, and he ordered another one of his tea concoctions, and they knew exactly how to prepare the mad scientist's tools. (My regular order is being made the second I hit the door. They love me in there, and I love them right back.) My brother made some wisecrack about my passion iced tea, which admittedly sounds kind of gay but tastes great (so blow me). I noticed he didn't say a word about my triple espresso--he thinks I'm nuts for drinking so much caffeine, but what can you do? He put some tea from his bottle into a big plastic Starbucks cup, one of the see-through tallboys.

We walked outside and started down Pearson toward Michigan. As I looked over to my right to check out a cute blonde at a newspaper box, I noticed with horror that my brother's tea looked absolutely 100% like a cup of piss. It wasn't some strange urine color, but rather a slightly watered down hint of piss, like the color of your pee just before you start peeing completely clear when the drinks are piling up.

I held in my laughter as my brother occupied himself by making fun of my pink drink, and some crassness about the level to which it is completely unmanly to have a pink drink. I'm sure other people saw my brother's tea and thought the same thing that I did: That a guy was walking down the street with a not only a cup, but also a plastic bottle full of urine, which for some reason or another he was chugging.

After a couple blocks, I pointed out to him that pink is pink, and people probably assume it's something like fruit punch, but definitely not...other things.

"What? What other things?" He really didn't know how much that drink looked like piss.

We wandered down Michigan, checking out and getting checked out by girls of all sorts. Once the weather changes, man oh man, Chicago comes to life. I couldn't remember where the Sony store was, so we went into the Virgin Megastore. A cute girl was checking out movies but just as I was about to drop a cheesy line, my brother said, "Yo, they closed. That's where the Apple store is now. Let's roll." The little fucker saved me from potential public embarassment and he didn't even know it. What a guy.

As we were crossing the river, he exclaimed, "God, I can't believe I get paid to do this. Just roll around with my brother all day. And it's SO nice out!!!"

God, I CAN belive how I'm NOT getting paid to do this--rolling around all day with my piss-toting brother, that is. Enjoy it while it lasts, I guess.

We finally made it over to the Daley Center, where my brother stopped for a moment and asked me to hold his cup while he rummaged around his backpack.

Just as one of the sheriffs was exiting the courthouse, I took a sip from the cup and said, "Geez, bro, your pee doesn't have any salt in it at all. You should really see a urologist about this." The sheriff laughed.

"Very funny asshole. See ya later, bro." And he was off into the tall cavern of humanity that is the county court system.

I admit it: I stood in Daley Plaza for a second, fairly disoriented. After all, every other person I knew would have tooled back into some Loop high-rise to finish off their Wednesday afternoon. I, on the other hand, was out looking for entertainment.

I strolled up Clark Street and headed back across the river, to see my friend at the lunch cafe he operates--Keefer's Kafe, at Kinzie and Dearborn. Thanks to the Starbucks earlier, I hit the bathroom immediately upon entering.

When I came out of the john, my buddy Seamus was working away behind the counter, his boss Rich giving him his lunch order. (Special order--Italian beef sandwich with tons of peppers, little salad, tomato soup.) Seamus worked away and I said hey to Rich.

"Oh no. Is this the bathroom brother? Is this the guy?" he said.

"Huh? I was just in the bathroom. Why? My brother's not in the bathroom. What?" I was so confused.

Seamus stopped what he was doing and said, "Did you not hear what happened with your brother?"

"No," I said. "I saw him the other night at my parents', but he was sneakily concealing details.

Rich smiled and made a wise-ass remark neither of us heard as he left the cafe.

"Oh man! Hold on. I'm coming home from work. Give me a ride home and I'll tell you what happened. Your brother is out of control."

"Cool," I say. "I need gas anyway. Throw me a couple bucks and your on." I refuse to pay for overpriced gas downtown, preferring to fill up either in the 'burbs or Wisconsin.

I had a nice, uneventful walk home, which is how it should be. I walked by the interview buidling (it's above a terrific bar--and the girl sounds hot--and it's marketing--this should be interesting). I hit Starbucks again, because I have something wrong with me.

I stopped for a second and talked to one of the doormen who was leaving for the day. He said, "I've enjoyed your doing nothing. It's very amusing to me." Thanks, bro. I try to please my public.

Then I traded barbs with the guy whose shift just started. He's a younger guy from Poland, so I asked him if he'd ever been to Dresden. (One of my best friends from high school just moved there, and he's been nagging me to come visit him. I keep telling him that it's like stealing for him to buy dollars with euros right now, but he's insistent on ignoring me, the fucker.) Anyhow, we shot the shit about how awesome it is in Germany, hot girls, the Cubs, etc. I left when some delivery guy stopped by--somebody's gotta work around here.

I hung out and played some PlayStation2 for a while. Seamus came over right about then, and the chilling began.

It's hard to tell where the next hour or so went--part of it spent watching SportsCenter, part of it playing video games, part of it reading various books I have lying around, part of it screwing around with my iPod.

I mentioned that I thought Danica Patrick's kind of a hottie, and Seamus said she's a dyke. I quickly corrected him: "You have to weight the decision given that she's an athlete, and most female athletes are butch. If she was walking down the street, you wouldn't fall over, but you wouldn't puke either, which is as much as you can ask from a female pro athelete. That's excepting tennis chicks, of course. Like that Katerina Witt chick--she's considered this super-hot ice skater, but she's fucking butt ugly." Seamus saw my point, but I doubt he thinks Danica's that attractive. I'd still bone her.

Another chunk of our time together was dedicated to the afore-referenced story involving my brother. Since this tale does not involve me, nor was it approved for retelling by the person in question, I will spare him the potential embarassment of publishing it. Let's just say that it's unreal, and in its own twisted way, it was completely, hysterically awesome.

Speaking of the devil, my bro called and said he'd give Seamus a ride home. We got up to go just as Sheehan called. He said he was dying for an Italian dinner, so I told him to come by when he was done at work.

I walked Seamus's to my bro's car, so I could ask my brother to print me a couple resumes to bring to my meeting. He said to email to his work account, and they pulled away.

I walked around the block and pretended to listen to my iPod. That's right--the iPod headfake. When I become pathetically obsessed with a new electronic gadget, I encourge the it taking all forms--in this case, it played the headfake. I listened to a couple of cute but rapidly approching over-the-hill secretaries bitch about work, their nails, and their dry cleaners. So, that's what they talk about all day. Yeah right.

I got home just a minute before Sheehan. We watched some t.v., smoked a cig, and debated about dinner. He wanted Papa Milano's but I steered him toward Rosebud. Never in my life have I turned down a Rosebud call. If I ever get really famous and move away from here, I will have Rosebud flown to me, that's how much I love it.

Sheehan complained that two girls at the office, being bored to tears, have become overly gay with regards to his hooking up with a co-worker. Sheehan's trying to keep it a secret, but that sort of thing never stays under wraps for long. One of the girls in question is huge to the point of vacuum of attractiveness; for just a split second, I thought that Mike might ask me to do something with said fat bitch in order to shut her up about his romance. (That might work, too, because this girl is as desperate for hog as she is enormous.) Mike knows me too well for that, and he sort of dropped it. We departed for the restaurant.

Rosebud is the best food ever. People complain that the portions are too big, but they apparently don't go there when they're starving. They do give you a ton of food, but it's a ton of tasty-ass food. I switched my order up. Usually I go with a bowl of minestrone and vodka rigatoni. Tonight I ordered a caprese salad and fettuccini alfredo. Sheehan ordered his usual sausage and peppers. He asked if it was okay if he ordered a Moretti, in light of my pledge to take a few weeks off from drinking after the Mad-Town incident. I told him that it might constitute a major test of my will, but I'd come out the other side stronger and sober. (Such was the case, by the way.)

Dinner was hugely enjoyable as always. We sat next to a table of four girls in their twenties--fantastic. I did a quick glance and noticed presents (uh-oh) and three of the four with rocks on--not fantastic. Why the uh-oh for the presents? It's an automatic deal breaker. If the girl is getting the present as some sort of wedding shower gift, it's not worth the effort to pay any one of them any attention--they're young enough they they're "so in love!" with being married that you'll never make any headway. If the gift is a birthday present for the single girl, she's invariably depressed that another birthday's passed and she, unlike all of her friends, is unmarried--too much baggage potential. So we passed the meal by trading tales about our buddies, girls, drinking, work--the usual. It was great.

Sheehan came back here and we watched episodes two and three of the first season of Entourage, possibly the best HBO show of them all. The writing is so dead-on, and the girls are so hot. From what I gather (as I've never seen the comparison case) it's like the O.C., only you don't have to chop your cock off in order to watch it.

We watched a couple innings of the Cubs game, and they somehow tagged Derek Lowe of the Dodgers for a 4-run second inning. Equally shockingly, John Koronka was making his first MLB start and was holding his own. Sheehan doesn't have cable, most Cubs games are on a local cable channel this year, so he allows himself to get sucked in as much as possible. Since the game had a ridiculously late 9 p.m. L.A. start time, Sheehan had to go after the end of the third.

He hopped in a cab, and I had just enough time to make the ultimate bachelor's run to Potash Bros. grocery store across the street. With about 10 minutes to close, I grabbed a 12-pack of pop, two boxes of microwave popcorn, a thing of milk, a bag of Hershey's kisses, and a couple bags of sunflower seeds--raw sustenence, in other words. I love going into stores minutes before they close, so no one's in line ahead of you, or blocking the aisle.

I ran back upstairs to catch the end of the Cubs game (it's now 6-5 in the top of the eighth), and decided to do a little writing.

What do I do all day? Not much. But I sure do stay busy.