Friday, October 9, 2015

On What I Mean When I Say I'm a Cubs Fan

When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am not trying to tell you I know any of the current players on the team (well except for Arrieta because who doesn’t) or that I tune in regularly to WGN.  And I know that some may say I don’t deserve this win or that I am a fair weather fan, but that’s not true, because being a Cubs fan is about so much more than what happens on the field -  that’s why the loyalty pervades the losses. 
When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I’m really telling you is that when I meet someone from Chicago I immediately ask them if they prefer their Italian Beef from Portillo’s or Al’s and that their answer might mean fighting words.  Being a Cubs fan means I will also ask if their favorite pizza is from Gino’s, Giordano’s or Lou Malnati’s, but I know they will more likely mention a family owned joint in a strip mall near their home.  It also means I know that hot dogs aren’t really hot dogs unless they are Vienna Beef and that ribs should come from Carson’s and can’t be eaten without a plastic bib no matter how old you are. And it means I know that heading downtown the second week of July is the stupidest and smartest thing you can ever do.
When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I’m really telling you is that I’ve been trapped in a rainforest at Brookfield Zoo, and that I once twisted my ankle running from one slide to another at Magic Waters.  I’m also telling you that the first time I went upside down it was on The Demon, and it was so fun I had to get a Twicket and go back the next day.  I know the joy of waking up in the summer to my parents saying we were headed to Santa’s Village or Kiddie Kingdom.  I’ve zip-lined at Pirate’s Cove and looked for the golden ball in the ball pit at the World’s largest ShowBiz, Chuck-e-Cheese,  Little Caesar’s. 
            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I am really telling you is that I grew up shopping at Gorski’s and Dominick’s and got my prescriptions filled at Jewel-Osco.  When I needed a pop I ran out to White Hen.  I bought my clothes at Marshall Fields and at Christmas time headed to the 7 story one downtown just so I could see their Christmas tree.  When I went to Woodfield Mall I tried to get my mom to make a stop at the fish tanks and the ice skating rink. 
            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that I spent my Sunday mornings cheering with Pop Warner and my Sunday afternoons in orange and blue.  It means I know every word to the Super Bowl Shuffle - and I call my Mom “Mah” because I knew “Da” was a word way before the Bears Fans legitimized it on Saturday Night Live.  It means I owned a Bulls jacket and Bulls hat because it was the easiest way to start a conversation with the cute boys in class in the late 80’s.  I also know every word to 50 Ways to Beat the Pistons which was featured on BahBahBahBah B!96!
            When I tell you I am a Cubs fan I am also telling you that we had a gymnastics unit in middle school complete with an actual vault.  We never missed school due to snow but sometimes had cold days when the temperatures were so frigid the buses wouldn’t start.  I know the extreme jealousy of looking at an empty seat in elementary and hearing the teacher say that so-and-so was absent because they finally got a ticket to earn their chance at The Grand Prize Game where they could possibly shake Bozo the Clown’s hand and come home with Archway cookies and that weird broccoli pizza.  Field trips meant walking through a beating heart at The Museum of Science and Industry or standing next to Wooly Mammoths at the Field Museum.  One lucky field trip resulted in my very own Cubby Bear that my entire 6th grade trip adopted as a pet after we went to a game together – each taking turns bringing him home for a sleepover. 
            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am also telling you that nothing was more comforting than the feel of my mom’s flannel nightgown while I laid in her lap Saturday evenings in front of the fire while she read the Tribune or the Daily Herald.  It means knowing what it’s like to fall asleep to the comforting sound of the Metra, which ran in the distance behind my bedroom and split our local tavern from our malt shop.  It means knowing that all rails lead downtown and that plush vinyl green seats are sure to lead to adventure. 
            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that my first concert was a New Kids on the Block show at Poplar Creek Outdoor Arena.  It means I watched A Christmas Carol at The Goodman Theater and dollar movies in Barrington Square (followed by Garibald’s of course.)  It means I saw the Ringling Brothers at the Rosemont but never could get tickets for a game because, Jordan…
            When I tell you that I am a Cubs fan I am also telling you that I have walked the Miracle Mile and explored Navy Pier.  I know that lakes can have beaches.  I once watched my brother dump a whole box of Garrett’s popcorn on a street corner summoning every pigeon in the Chicago Area to attack us like we were in a Hitchcock movie.  I know what it’s like to hang on to a rail because it was so much more fun than sitting on the L as it thundered over the streets below.  When I watch Sara in her Thor hat slide down the glass windows in Adventures in Baby-sitting I can tell exactly where you are in the architectural boat tour when that building shows up – not too far after the round parking garages famous in so many movie chase scenes and before what I will always call The Sears Tower.  And when I watch Kevin McCallister’s family run frantically through O’Hare or watch Ferris Bueller sing Danke Schoen I think, “I’ve Been There.” 
            So even though I don’t know all the players on the Cubs team right now I grew up with their names in my mouth.  When I still personally knew the joy of the crack of the bat it was Ryne Sandberg and Andre Dawson that my dad would compare me to.  I can tell you that it was Mark Grace who was fined for playing Slip n Slide on 8/8/88 which should have been the first night game in Wrigley history.  I have eaten malts off of wooden spoons while Harry Caray shouted, “Holy Cow.” I was wearing an old pair of oversized Cubs pajamas turned faded t-shirt the night I fell in love with my husband. 

            Most importantly, when I am telling you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that summer evenings when I was a kid meant wiffle ball in cul de sacs with our neighbors after dinner or in our backyard after a barbecue where at least some of the players were donning the circular C on hats and t-shirts just because that was our summer wardrobe.  These friends were my family for the first 12 formative years of my life.  This place was my home.  And a part of calling that home will always mean feeling that baseball should be played in pin stripes and that whether I intend it to or not the first words that always comes to my mind after root, root, root are “The Cubbies” for if they don’t win it’s a shame. 

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