"I SWEAR I DON'T HATE THE CUBS..."

By Dave Stern




If the Cubs played the Nazis I’d root for the Nazis.

I can hear Harry and Steve’s call right now:

Harry: Two outs bottom of the ninth and the Cubs are up by three. George Gobel digs in at the plate.

Steve: Actually Harry, the batter’s name is Joseph Goebbels. George Gobel was an American born comedian who starred on the Hollywood Squares in the seventies. Joseph Goebbels is the fine Nazi 3rd Baseman who also runs their PR department.

Harry: Rick Sutcliffe on the mound.

Steve: Ironically, Sutcliffe’s nickname is the “Red Baron”.

Harry: Goering on third, the evasive Eichmann on second and Albert Speer on first. You know Steve, Speer backwards is Reeps. The wind up and the pitch. Goebbels hits a deep drive into center. This could go. It might be, it could be, it is! The Nazis have beaten the Cubs in the bottom of the ninth.

Steve: The team is mobbing Goebbels as he crosses the plate. They sure have an odd way of high fiving.

I was different from the other boys in my neighborhood. While my buddies were ogling playboy pictorials of Adrienne Barbeau, I got my blood engorging excitement from watching the chiseled good looking Mike Schmidt break the hearts of the Cubs with bottom of the ninth heroics. The first time I saw the Cubs blow a game in the ninth I got a Cubby Flubby Chubby.

It’s no wonder I grew up as an Anti-Cubite. My father was an avid Cub racist. When he moved to this country in 1950 his first American friend taught him English through baseball. Whereas, most off-the-boat Germans are taught phrases like, “Excuse me, where can I buy a good strudel?” my father was taught, “Hank Sauer, you suck!” Martin Dryer was a White Sox fan and he indoctrinated my dad into the wonderful world of white hot Sox hate.

When I was born thirteen years later, my dad schooled me on the ways of hate. Some of my fondest early memories revolve around criticizing and ridiculing the Cubs storied battery of Paul Reuschel and Steve Swisher. Just thinking about the ineptitude of Pete LaCock and Ken Frailing still gets me all weepy. My dad and I were White Sox fans and the bond we shared should have lasted forever. Alas, the ways of rebellious adolescence and peer pressure would temporarily halt such gleeful times.

Right around the time I was twelve I started to stray from my people. All my friends were Cub fans and I was beginning to feel isolated from my buddies. I already was the only Jewish kid in the neighborhood so I desperately felt the need to fit in. That’s when I became indifferent to the Cubs and actually found myself going to Wrigley and not hating them with every fiber of my being. I even praised Manny Trillo once in front of my father just to push his buttons. I was living a lie but was too young and stupid to know it.

In 1977 my dad passed away and we buried him at Graceland Cemetery on Irving Park and Clark. I remember hearing the muffled cheers from the 8,200 fans at Wrigley during his gravesite service. Sadly, I didn’t realize the cruel irony of the location of his final interment. Thankfully, the cheers have been few and far between in the thirty years since his death.

During the next six years, baseball became an afterthought and I paid little attention to it. Then came 1983 and by the grace of God and Carlton Fisk I was reborn. The White Sox won 99 games and came within a half a Falstaff of the World Series. Sure, losing to the Orioles was a bitter pill to swallow, but the old feelings of pride were stirred once again. This time for good.

My justified and totally understandable Cub hatred was still absent until the following year. The Cubs luckily got into the playoffs and were playing the Padres for a trip to the World Series. They were up two games and were a lock to win the pennant. That’s when Rick’s Cub smugness surfaced.

After game two, the subtle taunts and innuendos started. Rick conveniently has failed to mention his constant remarks about how the Cubs would finally bring Chicago their long awaited championship. He couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful Wrigley’s gold ivy would look in the crisp autumn sun during the World Series. “Hey Dave,” he would innocently ask, “Do you think that Sutcliffe can win 2 games in the series.” Evidently, Rick had forgotten that it was only a year since my beloved team lost in the ALCS. The wounds were still open and Rick couldn’t help himself from sticking salty nachos in it.

He would refer to the team as, “his Cubbies.”

“Wow, Rick owns the Cubs and he’s eating Ramen noodles everyday in college, he sure is a man of the people,” I thought.

He would wear a “Cub Power” shirt every day further rubbing my nose in it. He also did the absolute worst Harry Caray impersonation morning, noon and night. He even referred to all the players by their dumbass nicknames: Ryno, Sarge, The Bull, Penguin, Eck blah blah blah.

Yet, through all of this I took the high ground. I was happy for Rick, his team was about to win, good for him. In fact, I even wanted to watch game four with him so I could witness his joy. For the record, Stu and I did high five after Steve Garvey hit that homerun. It was totally innocent-- Stu got an “A” on his Women Studies paper about social inequalities resulting from sexism, and I was just congratulating him. We were barely paying attention to the game. Now we’re the bad guys.

That’s when I was viciously assaulted by Rick and his Cub fan roommate, Skub (again with the nicknames). I was deeply hurt when I was thrown out of the apartment. I realized at that moment that smug Cub fans make the Grinch (before he compromised his Grinch values) look like Mother Theresa. The latent hatred I felt as a young boy was rekindled on that glorious October 1984 evening and remain a part of me to this day.

Twenty plus years have passed since I was persecuted by Rick and he’s never apologized. In fact, the White Sox have been the focus of his petty barbs and insults ever since. When I say petty, I mean PETTY.

For example, Rick mentions the Sox attendance pretty much every day. For some unexplained reason he gets some satisfaction that the Cubs draw more than the Sox. I guess when you were the least popular kid in high school you need to have a sense of belonging. For the record some pretty awful things have also been very popular (Fascism, the Macarena, Ricky Martin and Zima are just a few that come to mind.) I can’t wait to attend the big attendance trophy parade.

He also makes condescending remarks about Sox fans and their moral upbringing. In short, he thinks that all Sox fans live in trailer homes and have tattoos. This all stems from the misunderstood “William Ligue” incident. If you remember, tattooed and drunken White Sox fans William Ligue and son ALLEGEDLY stormed the field and beat up Kansas City’s first base coach, Tom Gamboa.

First off, the evidence is sketchy at best. With a Mac and some cheap software you can produce a video of a pig flying. Second, no one ever says anything bad about Tom Gamboa. Everyone seems to forget that he had his base runners take an extra base on two occasions in the first three innings. We were in pennant race for Pete’s sake. Give Ligue some credit; he took his son to a ball game.

Speaking of moral deficiencies, Rick idolizes people of dubious distinction. Take Sammy Sosa for instance. After witnessing Sammy’s home run hop one day at Wrigley, I mentioned that he was a bit of a bad sport. Rick said that Sammy wasn’t a show boat but an “entertainer.” For the record, the only entertaining Sammy sang Mr. Bojangles. If you want to make excuses for a steroid eating, cork using clown go right ahead. By the way, didn’t the Cubs draft Ben Christensen? For those of you who don’t remember, Ben Christensen was the guy who beaned a batter…while he was in THE ONDECK CIRCLE!

Rick also mutters that the White Sox 2005 World Series Championship wasn’t earned. He blubbers that when AJ stole first base in the ALCS he cheated. Who would you rather have; a smart hardnosed catcher that wills his team to victory or a meanie who slugs people without provocation? You can shove the 2005 World Series trophy right up your asterisk.

The Cubs are nearing a hundred years since their last championship. How could God smite such a faithful fan base with a century of futility? It’s because of you, Rick. God is punishing all those “loyal” fans filling the bleachers because you are a condescending little man. You are depriving all those cell phone wielding Susie Sorority’s and Frankie Fratboy’s a chance to wave at the cameras on national television in October.

Not only do I hate you, but so do they.

P.S. For the record I would only root for the Nazis during the baseball game. After that, not so much.

P.S.S. If anyone from the Cubs front office reads this piece, my buddy Andy has a Cub logo tattooed on his shoulder. Knowing your past litigious ways, I assume you will want his personal information to sue for trademark infringement. Give me a call.