CUBS ANSWER MAN RETURNS
By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern





Last month we answered some of your questions about the upcoming Chicago Cubs World Series. Since that original column, we've gotten many more questions. We don’t have room to answer all of them here today, but we’ll try to get through them before the parade in November.


“A" writes: OK, I’m getting a little nervous here. There are way too many people who have heard me say that I would give my left nut for a Cubs World Series Championship. If they win it, do I have any legal recourse to protect my left nut?

R&D: No, sorry, you don’t. Don’t feel bad though. Not everybody has nuts. For instance, Almond Joy’s got nuts. Mounds don’t.


“J” writes: My grandfather came home from the big war too late to see the Cubs play in the World Series the last time they were there. I’d like to take him this year, but my question is this: Which possible rival has the most Japanese players? It would have extra special meaning for Gramps if we could beat the Japanese again while the Cubs are in the World Series.

R&D: Gramps is in luck. There are three contenders in the American League that have a few Japanese players. The Seattle Mariners are still in the thick of the American League West race and they have two Japanese players in their every day lineup—Ichiro and Kenji Johjima. The Yankees still aren’t out of it either, and they have Hideki Matsui and Kei Igawa. (Tell Gramps that Chien Mien Wang is from Taiwan ). But if he really wants to hit the mother lode, he should probably be rooting for the Red Sox. They have Dice K and Hideki Okajima—but they also have something that the other two teams don’t have: a real live Kraut-—Curt Schilling.

“F” writes: I’ve never been to a World Series at Wrigley Field. Do they have a dress code?

R&D: They certainly did the last time. Gentlemen were expected to wear nice trousers, a jacket, and a fedora. Ladies were expected to wear dresses, gloves, and hats. Goats were not welcome, regardless of what they wore.


"M" writes: My summer reading program for school includes "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn". How can I concentrate on Mark Twain when the Cubs are winning?

R&D: If it makes you feel any better, Mark Twain might have been a Cubs good luck charm. In his lifetime they were a powerhouse. In fact, during the last five years of his life they were in the World Series four times. (He died during the Cubs World Series season of 1910.) Their bad luck started shortly thereafter. They lost the series in 5 games to the A's, they broke up the double play combination of Tinkers to Evers to Chance, and the star pitcher on that Cubs team (King Cole), went to Africa after the series, contracted malaria and died.

"X" writes: I know Al Capone was a fixture in the stands during the 1929 World Series, and there have been other gangsters at the World Series during the 30s and 40s, but what are we going to do this year? It seems like all of our gangsters are tied up in that Mob Secrets trial. Who will be the enforcers if the other side gets out of hand?

R&D: Not to worry. We've got those 80-year-old ushers making sure nobody sits in the good seats. Everything should be fine.


"G" writes: Do you think that we can convince any of the Cubs players to call a home run shot in the World Series, so we can finally stop talking about Babe Ruth's called shot?

R&D: Absolutely. However, let's make sure it isn't Kerry Wood. He'll probably throw his arm out pointing.


"L" writes: I've got Zambrano pitching in Game 1 of the World Series, followed by Lilly, but I can't decide who should pitch Game 3. Who would you choose right now?

R&D: Three Fingers Mordecai Brown. He's been there before, understands the pressure, and throws the best spitball in the league.

QUESTIONS ABOUT THE WORLD SERIES BOUND CHICAGO CUBS
By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern





As you may or may not realize, the Chicago Cubs are the hottest team in baseball. After a slow start, they have surged to within a few games of division leading Milwaukee. Anyone who has lived in Chicago for a long time knows what is going to happen next.

The Cubs are going to win it all this year.

Because it’s been a little while since this last occurred, many of our Chicago readers have been writing us with their questions. We don’t have room to answer all of them here today, but we’ll try to get through them before the parade in November.

“D” writes: “I’m getting a little nervous about all this World Series talk. Are we putting the cart before the horse?”

R&D: That phrase might have meant something the last time the Cubs won the World Series, but don’t forget that cars have been invented since then. Horses and carts are nowhere near as popular as they were the last time the Cubs won it all.

“A” writes: “Is there anything we can learn from the last Cubs World Series champions?”

R&D: Absolutely. Pitching and defense are the keys to winning it all. If our current Cubbies follow the lead of the 1908 Champions, they’ll be saying “World Champion Chicago Cubs” as soon as the news is telegraphed to all 46 states, including the brand new state of Oklahoma.

“B” writes: “Should the 2007 National League Champion Chicago Cubs be aware of any rule changes since their last World Series appearance in 1945?”

R&D: There have only been a few rule changes. During the 1960s the pitchers dominated in a big way--especially in 1968. That was the year that Bob Gibson had an ERA of 1.12, Denny McLain had 31 victories, and Carl Yastrzemski led the AL with a paltry .301 batting average. So the Baseball Rules Committee lowered the mound. Other changes included the shrinking of the strike zone and tighter enforcement against illegal pitches. Oh, and now they also allow Blacks to play.

“S” writes: “Since the World Series is played in October, what should I wear to Wrigley to combat the frigid evenings?”

R&D: Make sure you wear warm clothes in layers. We suggest a t shirt, under another t-shirt with a sweatshirt on top. Blue sweatshirts with the words “Renegades, Baseball” retain your natural heat the best. Since most of your body heat escapes through your head, wear big honking headphones. This is especially important if you’re sitting in the front row. Remember, you’re not just a spectator—you’re a participant.

“K” writes: “I’m going to take my folding chairs out of my parking space and reserve a space for the parade. Any idea which route the parade took last time? I want to get the best seat.”

R&D: They obviously avoided the notorious North Side German ghetto last time, so don’t waste your time placing your chairs on one of those unpaved dirt roads there.

“R” writes: “Will President Theodore Roosevelt attend the World Series this time? We’re all still a little miffed that he snubbed Chicago last time.”

R&D: Unfortunately, no. It looks like Roosevelt won’t be coming again this time. What do you expect from a New Yorker?


We hope this helps. If you have any other questions about how to handle the World Series, feel free to send them in to your good buddies at Half Empty. Between now and the big parade we’ll try to get to as many of your questions as we can.

"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.

I SWEAR I DON'T HATE THE WHITE SOX...

By Rick Kaempfer




I actually grew up liking the White Sox.

I always preferred the Cubs, but I never understood why it was necessary to also hate the White Sox, so I didn’t.

That changed in October of 1984. I was 21 years old at the time, a college junior, living in an apartment at the University of Illinois. Most of my friends, including the guy who normally writes this column with me (Dave Stern), were Sox fans. At first, their petty jealousy about the Cubs' drive toward the World Series didn’t bother me. I thought it was a little pathetic that they couldn’t let it go around me—-especially since I was rooting for the White Sox the previous year when they were in the playoffs—-but I figured, consider the source.

I hadn’t counted on Steve Garvey.

For those of you who don’t remember what happened that year, the Cubs were up 2 games to zip over the San Diego Padres. They only needed to win one more game to go the World Series, and they had three chances to do it. They lost pretty convincingly in Game 3.

Game 4 was another story. The Cubs had the lead late in the game when Steve Garvey came up to bat. I was watching the game in my living room surrounded by Sox fans, led by my good friends Dave and Stu. Just before Garvey stepped into the batter’s box, Stu declared: “He’s going deep.” I scoffed outwardly, but inwardly my intestines were twirled into a knot.

When Garvey lived up to Stu’s prediction, I was stunned—-it’s a moment that still stings today—-a young life forever altered, an optimistic young lad transformed into a bitter, cynical old man in the blink of an eye. I saw the world clearly for the first time—-there was no joy or happiness on this planet—-life was just going to be a series of bone-crushing disappointments leading up to my eventual death.

Seeing your best friend’s hopes and dreams crushed in such a dramatic fashion would have given most humans with actual feelings a moment’s pause.

Not stereotypical Sox fans Stu and Dave.

No sir. Stu and Dave took that moment, which incidentally was the worst moment of my life at the time, to high-five each other right over my head. They were giggling with glee.

Their hatred of the Cubs was stronger than their affection for their best friend.

That showed me what it meant to be a Sox fan. I figured I had to choose at that moment. The way I figured it, I had three choices.

#1: Take the high five in the spirit it was intended, laugh about it, become one of them, and eventually enter the gates of Hell with no soul.
#2: Get a gun and blow their brains out.
#3: Sever all ties with the White Sox forever.

I chose #3 because I didn’t have a gun in the house.

I’ve never looked back.

The only problem with this plan was that I didn’t have the blackened soul to properly counteract the dark, dark hate of the White Sox fan. I wasn’t a heartless beast roaming the earth, devouring sunshine for breakfast, ravenously gorging myself on my fellow man’s good will for lunch and dinner, sucking away the last few vestiges of the Earth’s hope and love with my empty vacuuming soul.

I tried. I really did. I went to the '93 White Sox playoffs and tried to root against the Sox. I sat right next to Dave…but all I felt was pity. I was a friend first, a hater second.

Dave repaid my restraint by calling me up during Cubs no-hitters so he could be on the phone with me to hear the disappointment in my voice during the inevitable hit. I’m not kidding. He actually did that. Each time he did it, the no-hitter was ruined.


We went to the Cubs-Sox games together the first couple of years they played against each other, but more often than not, I was just setting myself up for more despair. One year when the Sox swept the Cubs at Wrigley, he brought a broom, and swept me.


During the 2003 Bartman debacle, I wouldn’t answer the phone. Later he claimed he was just calling to offer sympathy—he claimed he actually felt sorry for the Cubs.

Right.

During the 2005 World Series, I went to Game 2 with Dave. Scott Podsednik hit the home run to win it in the ninth, and the ball fell about twenty rows in front of us. Dave, a man that had actual evil pulsing through his veins, was being rewarded for his behavior. It just didn’t make sense to me.

It wasn’t until I went to buy a beer that I understood. While the White Sox fan in front of me was buying a beer, he turned around and pointed at me.

“I’m buying for this guy too,” he said. “This is a day to celebrate.”

That’s when it hit me. God wasn’t rewarding Dave; he was rewarding other White Sox fans, many of whom are actual human beings with decency and regard for their fellow man. I realized at that moment, that I didn’t hate all Sox fans.

I only hate Dave.


Next week, Dave responds.