Hire Me
I know a million people who would work for the Cubs, but I'm dead serious about doing it someday.
I'm a great writer, and I wouldn't even be able to list the multitude of my classes applicable to the topic. (Marketing, finance, statistics, sociology, psychology--what? Name it, you got it.) I know every last published detail there ever was about the history of the Cubs franchise, and I don't seem to know (or, for that matter, really care) nearly as much about anything else. After a game a couple months ago (a 14-0 Mucking of the Farlins), my little sister asked me over beers how many games I've been to since the start of 2003. I had to think about it for a second, but I eventually replied, "I've been 74 games [and at least 12 since then], 5 playoff games, and 4 Spring Training games over the last three years." Have you ever done anything with that much regularity (with the exception of work, sex or--if you live in the South/are my parents--religious activities)? The Cubs are what I tend to do, and I'm damn good at it.
I would do anything to work for them. I just feel that I will someday. How could contribute to the organization? I could easily write a daily column about the Cubs, especially if I could sit in an air-conditioned press box--hell, I could do that from my freakin' apartment. I could write a book about the fan experience in and about the stand, one for each summer, like of time capsule or yearbook of each summer's experience. I would make a great scout, and I bet I could be a great general manager someday. If Theo Epstein can do it, so can I. The opportunity simply hasn't presented itself yet.
My guesstimations during game situations are typically dead-on. I can usually guess not only if a guy is going to try to steal against Barrett, but which counts he's likely to run on against Maddux. I might be a good broadcaster, but I seriously don't know if people would like to hear what I have to say for three hours every day. I would be a very excellent everyman announcer, similar to what ABC thought they would get from Dennis Miller on Monday Night Football. I, however, would certainly make fewer references to Nietzsche and obscure movies from the '50's. Miller made comments like, "Listen, babe, it's like Dick Van Dyke would say to Faust, 'I don't know much about cars, but you can pass me the rhubarb pie, babe." I think Dennis Miller is one of the funniest guys alive, but you knew that sort of banter wasn't going to fly with your everyday Joe Beerman football fan. Joe wants to hear a cross between two of my idols: Ron Santo--the clueless moments and constant hilarity--and Steve Stone--technical but thruthful points about the game's subtleties. In one instant I'd be mentioning how I'd forgotten my wallet on the train, and in the next I'd be pointing out that Beckett's curveball didn't have its usual, crisp break.
The maddening thing is, I have all these vague connections to Cubs officials. For example, I'm good friends with the next-door neighbor of the guy who runs ticketing. My sisters went to school with the head honcho's kids. My buddy's uncle is a Cubs big shot on the Tribune end. The path toward getting a job with the Cubs is uncertain to me. No matter how passionate I am about it, I still can't seem to create that opening. Maybe it's just a matter of waiting for the right timing. Maybe it'll be a random bump-in at some party or something. Maybe it will never happen, and I'll just be the biggest Cub fan of all time. That would be sad, but I'd nonetheless be thrilled to be that guy.
I guess that my dream job would be to run a minor league team somewhere, in the vein of the Bill Veeck-style baseball operator. Giving publicity speeches every day, flying around the country with the guys, making deals, evaluating talent, figuring out the financing, making sure that the grass is green and cut, all the nuts and bolts of the business. Baseball is such a great thing when you get down to it. For guys like me, no winter is ever short enough.
I'm a great writer, and I wouldn't even be able to list the multitude of my classes applicable to the topic. (Marketing, finance, statistics, sociology, psychology--what? Name it, you got it.) I know every last published detail there ever was about the history of the Cubs franchise, and I don't seem to know (or, for that matter, really care) nearly as much about anything else. After a game a couple months ago (a 14-0 Mucking of the Farlins), my little sister asked me over beers how many games I've been to since the start of 2003. I had to think about it for a second, but I eventually replied, "I've been 74 games [and at least 12 since then], 5 playoff games, and 4 Spring Training games over the last three years." Have you ever done anything with that much regularity (with the exception of work, sex or--if you live in the South/are my parents--religious activities)? The Cubs are what I tend to do, and I'm damn good at it.
I would do anything to work for them. I just feel that I will someday. How could contribute to the organization? I could easily write a daily column about the Cubs, especially if I could sit in an air-conditioned press box--hell, I could do that from my freakin' apartment. I could write a book about the fan experience in and about the stand, one for each summer, like of time capsule or yearbook of each summer's experience. I would make a great scout, and I bet I could be a great general manager someday. If Theo Epstein can do it, so can I. The opportunity simply hasn't presented itself yet.
My guesstimations during game situations are typically dead-on. I can usually guess not only if a guy is going to try to steal against Barrett, but which counts he's likely to run on against Maddux. I might be a good broadcaster, but I seriously don't know if people would like to hear what I have to say for three hours every day. I would be a very excellent everyman announcer, similar to what ABC thought they would get from Dennis Miller on Monday Night Football. I, however, would certainly make fewer references to Nietzsche and obscure movies from the '50's. Miller made comments like, "Listen, babe, it's like Dick Van Dyke would say to Faust, 'I don't know much about cars, but you can pass me the rhubarb pie, babe." I think Dennis Miller is one of the funniest guys alive, but you knew that sort of banter wasn't going to fly with your everyday Joe Beerman football fan. Joe wants to hear a cross between two of my idols: Ron Santo--the clueless moments and constant hilarity--and Steve Stone--technical but thruthful points about the game's subtleties. In one instant I'd be mentioning how I'd forgotten my wallet on the train, and in the next I'd be pointing out that Beckett's curveball didn't have its usual, crisp break.
The maddening thing is, I have all these vague connections to Cubs officials. For example, I'm good friends with the next-door neighbor of the guy who runs ticketing. My sisters went to school with the head honcho's kids. My buddy's uncle is a Cubs big shot on the Tribune end. The path toward getting a job with the Cubs is uncertain to me. No matter how passionate I am about it, I still can't seem to create that opening. Maybe it's just a matter of waiting for the right timing. Maybe it'll be a random bump-in at some party or something. Maybe it will never happen, and I'll just be the biggest Cub fan of all time. That would be sad, but I'd nonetheless be thrilled to be that guy.
I guess that my dream job would be to run a minor league team somewhere, in the vein of the Bill Veeck-style baseball operator. Giving publicity speeches every day, flying around the country with the guys, making deals, evaluating talent, figuring out the financing, making sure that the grass is green and cut, all the nuts and bolts of the business. Baseball is such a great thing when you get down to it. For guys like me, no winter is ever short enough.
posted by Pat at 2:45 AM
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