By Bob Markus
It is one of the most famous sports photographs of all-time, right up there with the rear view image of a dying Babe Ruth, wearing his No.3 Yankee pinstripes and leaning on his bat as if it were a cane, in his farewell appearance at Yankee Stadium; right up there with the shot of New York Giants quarterback Y.A. Tittle, battered and bleeding, on his knees after a Giants' defeat in his final NFL season. It shows a foggy-eyed Gene Tunney, his gloved left hand grasping the lower strand of rope, trying to get up while, immediately behind him, referee Dave Barry is trying to get Jack Dempsey to go to a neutral corner. It is, of course, the quintessential image of the famous "long count" fight in Chicago's Soldier Field and I used to look at it every day on a wall in the sports department of the ChicagoTribune.
What brings it to mind is an almost serendipitous congruence of events over the last week. On Monday of last week, after playing golf, I stopped at the local library to pick up a book my wife had reserved. As it happens, the book wasn't there, but I took a few minutes to browse through the stacks and discovered a book Called "Tunney" with the subtitle "Boxing's Brainiest Champ and His Upset of the Great Jack Dempsey." Being a boxing fan, but knowing little about Tunney other than that he was a great boxer who actually read books, I checked it out.
I started reading it almost immediately, but somehow by Saturday had not gotten even halfway through it. I sometimes say, only half in jest, that since my retirement a dozen years ago I often wonder how I ever found time to work. When I was writing sports for The Tribune I usually read at least one book a week and once read two complete novels in one day (I admit that neither was "War and Peace" or even "Rabbit Run.") Now I sometimes go for days without reading anything but newspapers and magazines. Don't ask me where the time goes because I don't know, although I suspect the time spent on the computer may have something to do with it.
Any way, by Saturday night I had just gotten to the part where Tunney is about to get his clock cleaned by Harry Greb while Dempsey is still in damage control mode over his failure to go into military service in World War I. Although I like to keep autumn Saturdays free for college football, I had allowed myself to be coerced into playing bridge in the couples group my wife founded. That took care of all but the first half of the early games and the late afternoon games were a total washout. We did get home in time for me to watch Missouri, my alma mater, blow out Colorado and after that I switched back and forth between Penn State-Ohio State and the World Series. When the Series game ended, somewhere around midnight, I discovered there was a boxing match on Showtime.
I hadn't a clue as to who the fighters were but I could see that I had gotten in on the start of a 12-round fight. After watching the first two rounds I asked myself if I really wanted to stay up past 1 a.m. to watch the conclusion and decided in the negative. So I went to bed, but a strange thing happened. Well, maybe not so strange. Somewhere around 3 a.m. I woke up for the reason that men of a certain age often do, but unlike most nights, I couldn't get back to sleep. So I slipped out of bed and went to the living room and turned on the TV. There on the screen was the same fight I had been watching three hours before, but now it was in the 11th round (obviously, it was a taped second screening of the original live bout).
The announcers quickly caught me up on the fact that I was watching the end of an IBF super middleweight championship bout from Montreal and that the champion, French Canadian Lucian Bute, had won all 11 rounds thus far over his American challenger, Librado Andrade. Bute, who had entered the bout with a 22-0 professional record, seemed certain of remaining unbeaten--until Andrade finally started to find the range. Before long, Bute was in real trouble. With less than a minute to go in the fight, he was despertely holding on. Twice he reeled backwards from one corner to the opposite corner without being hit. Finally, Andrade caught up to him and hit him with everything but the ring post. With 3 seconds to go, Bute hit the canvas. By rule, he could not be saved by the bell. So one thing was clear--he would have to regain his feet within 10 seconds.
But that was the only thing that was clear. Because referee Marion Wright, after reaching the count of five, stopped counting and ordered Andrade to a neutral corner. He might have taken an additional five or six seconds before picking up the count at six. Bute, by this time, was standing, although he didn't appear in any shape to continue fighting. But, since the bell, presumably, had sounded, he didn't need to be able to continue. All he needed to do was stand up and he actually appeared to have accomplished that in seven or eight seconds. Bute was awarded the unanimous decision amid a great deal of tumult. Both ring announcers began screaming about a long count and both Andrade's manager and the fighter himself said the fight had been stolen from them. Even referee Wright seemed a bit confused. He said that Andrade had "cost himself the fight" by not going to a neutral corner. "If he'd gone to a neutral corner he'd have won the fight," Wright said. But the referee had turned away from Bute in order to remonstrate with Andrade and thus did not see the champion pop to his feet well inside the limit.
The similarities between the two "long count" fights are evident. The winners in both lost only one round, the one in which they were knocked down. In both fights the losers cried "We wuz robbed." In both fights no one knew for sure if the champion could have survived without the extra time. Tunney always claimed he could have gotten up at any time after the count reached two, but stayed down to rest. Bute said he was more tired than hurt. There is one huge difference, however. The Dempsey-Tunney fight was seen by 104,000 people in Soldier field and heard by 50 million fight fans worldwide. It dominated the newspapers for days afterward. It is still talked about today, more than 80 years later.
The Bute-Andrade fight? I'll bet this is the first you've heard about it.
Blogger's note: Next Tuesday I'll be an election worker. No time for bloggin'. See you Nov. 11
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
By Bob Markus
The Price was right for the Tampa Bay Rays. Rookie pitcher David Price was the right man at the right time and that's why the incredible saga of the last-to-first Rays goes on. Of course, Rays' manager Joe Maddon had little choice but to employ the 6-foot, 6 inch lefty under the circumstances. The circumstances were these: The Rays were about to gag up a three games to one lead over the Boston Red Sox in the American League Championship Series in spite of having a 7-0 late inning lead in Game five.
The Price was right for the Tampa Bay Rays. Rookie pitcher David Price was the right man at the right time and that's why the incredible saga of the last-to-first Rays goes on. Of course, Rays' manager Joe Maddon had little choice but to employ the 6-foot, 6 inch lefty under the circumstances. The circumstances were these: The Rays were about to gag up a three games to one lead over the Boston Red Sox in the American League Championship Series in spite of having a 7-0 late inning lead in Game five.
Maddon had made one of his few blunders in the seventh inning of Game five when he allowed right hander Grant Balfour to face David Ortiz with two men on and a run already in. Still leading 7-1, the only way the Rays were going to lose this game was if Big Papi broke out of his home run slump. Maddon should have brought in a left hander at this point, but he stuck with Balfour and Ortiz, almost predictably, crushed a three-run homer.
Even though they still trailed 7-4, the Red Sox now had the momentum and a good bit of history on their side. Twice before in this decade the Red Sox had overcome three games to one deficits to reach the World Series. Against the New York Yankees in 2004 they became the only major league team ever to crawl out of a 3-0 hole. Only last year they spotted the Cleveland Indians a 3-1 lead and roared back to reach--and win--the World Series. It now seemed inevitable that they were on their way to doing it again. That feeling grew stronger when, after completing their jaw-dropping comeback in game five, they won game six in St.Petersburg to square the series.
Now here they were, trailing 3-1 in the eighth but with the bases loaded and lefty swinging J.D. Drew at the plate. As the late announcer Harry Caray used to love to say, "there's danger here, cherie." Indeed. It was Drew, after all, whose two-run homer off right hander Dan Wheeler in the eighth inning of game five had drawn the Sox within a run and it was Drew whose line drive over the head of right fielder Gabe Gross had driven in the winner.
Maddon was not about to make the same mistake twice in the same series. Having already used lefty J.P. Howell earlier in the inning, he called on Price, who had been a major leaguer for all of a month and had never saved a game in the big leagues--had never won one, for that matter, before this series. "We'll call him The Ice Man now," gushed Howell, after Price not only blew away Drew to end the threat, but notched two more strikeouts in the ninth while nailing down the victory.
The World Series, which starts tomorrow night in St. Petersburg, could be anti-climactic. In recent years one or both of the league championship series have produced more compelling baseball than the World Series. Three of the last four Fall Classics have been four-game sweeps and the other took the St. Louis Cardinals just five games to dispatch the Detroit Tigers. Love them or hate them the New York Yankees could always be counted on to give the Series cache. In the last 11 years, 10 different teams have represented the National League in the Series. Oddly enough, the only N.L. team to make it to the big dance twice is the Florida Marlins, the only team in the league that has never lost a playoff series--nor has it ever won a division championship.
Major League Baseball likely was hoping for a different outcome in both of this year's league championship series. A Manny Ramirez-led Dodgers team against the Red Sox would have made a great story line once it became obvious that the Chicago Cubs were not going to end their 100-year swoon any time soon.
But the Tampa Bay Rays make a pretty good story themselves. Now, in their 11th season, the Rays never won more than 70 games in a 162-game season. A year ago they had the worst record in baseball. Known as the Devil Rays since their inception, the Rays exorcised the Devil part of their nickname this year, a fact that probably had nothing to do with their amazing turn around. On the other hand, what other explanation is there? Sure, there is that talented young pitching rotation, but with closer Troy Percival out with an injury their bullpen by committee is only sometimes effective. They have some good young players like rookie third baseman Evan Longoria and center fielder B.J. Upton, but aside from Carl Crawford and Rocco Baldelli, both of whom have battled injuries, there are few Rays players who would be recognized outside Pinellas County.
But now The Ice Man cometh and could be the deciding factor in the upcoming series. The Philadelphia Phillies resemble the Boston Red Sox in many ways. Like the Red Sox, the Phils have an All-Star second baseman in Chase Utley. Like the Red Sox, the Phils have a big bopper in Ryan Howard. Like the Red Sox, the Phils have a dominant closer in Brad Lidge. Lidge, in fact, failed to save only one game all year, but that was the All-Star game. Because of that lone failure the home field advantage goes to Tampa Bay. Playing in quirky Tropicana Field, the Rays had the best home record in baseball. I like Tampa Bay in six games.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
By Bob Markus
I love sports and I love movies, therefore I must love sports movies. If you agree witjh that statement you've just flunked Logic 101. Indeed, I find many sports movies insipid, inaccurate and incredibly formulaic. The good guys always win, unless it's a boxing movie, in which case the good guy, if there is one, will often lose (Raging Bull, Cinderella Man, The Harder They Fall, Requiem for a Heavyweight)--or even die (Champion, Million Dollar Baby.) David always beats Goliath, without even resorting to a slingshot, and always on the last play of the game or the final stride of the race. Usually there are some incredible obstacles to overcome, most often posed by a cheating, treacherous opponent. Or else there's the tough-as-nails coach with a soft spot in his heart who relentlessly spurs the protagonist to an improbable victory.
So, it was with little enthusiasm that I went to see The Express over the week-end. My wife and I try to see a movie once a week, usually on Sunday afternoon. Our tastes are fairly similar, although she tends to like what I consider "weepers" more than I do and I like Westerns more than she does. We both like foreign films and ensemble movies, which usually feature several good acting performances. We pretty much like the same actors (Phillip Seymour Hoffman, William H. Macy, Tim Robbins and Ed Harris to name a few) and will usually go to their films no matter what the critics say about them. Although she can take sports--up to a point--or leave them alone, it ironically is she who usually suggests seeing a sports-themed movie.
Since we'd seen most of the movies playing at our nearby theaters, or at least all of them we cared to see, The Express seemed about the best we were going to do. I personally would have preferred to stay home and watch the Dolphins find a new way to blow a football game, but that would not have been prudent. In these tough economic times, divorce is not an option.
I liked the movie. Really liked it. The story of Ernie Davis of Syracuse, the first black Heisman Trophy winner, was not unfamiliar to me. I knew he had followed Jim Brown to Syracuse, had played brilliantly, and had died of leukemia before he could play pro ball. I did not know, although I probably should have, that in 1959 racial hatred was still so rampant on the playing fields of America.
Two of the more memorable scenes in the movie involve racist abuse--shouted epithets, thrown bottles, death threats--from fans at a game in West Virginia and again in the Cotton bowl in Dallas. The conduct by Texas Longhorn players and fans when Syracuse played for the national championship in the 1960 Cotton bowl seemed so outrageous I thought it was probably exaggerated. There were scenes of Texas players piling on Davis, throwing punches and inciting a half time brawl. "That was a little over the top," I told my wife afterwards. But when I got home I Googled it on my computer and found that even the headlines in the next day's Dallas paper mentioned "punches thrown."
The Express is not only Ernie Davis' story, but that of Syracuse Coach Ben Schwartzwalder, played superbly by Dennis Quaid. Schwartzwalder is portrayed as an old school coach who is trying to cope with a changing world. "You're not here to play games," he tells his team. "You're here to win games." While not overtly racist--after all he has recruited two black super stars and will afterwards recruit many more--Schwartzwalder seems to not want to challenge the status quo. When Davis runs the ball down to the West Virginia 5-yard line, the coach wants to pull him out of the game to let a white teammate get the touchdown. His rationale is that if Davis dented the end zone, the crowd might segue from hostile to murderous.
While his relationship with Jim Brown, who probably should have been the first black Heisman winner, seemed a little strained--Brown after all was, in the Jackie Robinson mold, a man who did not hide his feelings--Quaid's Schwartzwalder seemed to develop a close bond with Davis, portrayed by Rob Brown.
The football scenes are not entirely realistic, with Davis often leaping over several defenders and alternately knocking them down or spinning away from them two at a time. His 87-yard touchdown gallop in the Cotton bowl seems to be twice that long. But most of the incidents shown in the movie did occur.
For Syracuse football the 1959 National championship was a lofty perch that would not even be approached again for nearly 30 years. Schwartzwalder continued to recruit great running backs like Floyd Little, Jim Nance and Larry Csonka. He had some measure of success, but eventually was fired in the wake of a revolt of black players at a time when similar uprisings were occurring across the country.
In 1987 the Orangemen, under Dick MacPherson, made a national championship run. They went 11-0 in the regular season, including a 48-21 dismantling of Penn State. Unranked in the preseason polls, it took the Orangemen half the season to get noticed and they never got higher than No.4, which is where they finished. The season ended in a bittersweet Sugar bowl when, eschewing a chance to win or lose the game on the final play from the Syracuse 13, Auburn coach Pat Dye sent kicker Win (or tie) Lyle onto the field for a 30-yard field goal that produced a 16-16 tie.
There was a bittersweet ending, too, for quarterback Don McPherson, who should have become the second Syracuse Heisman winner. I had seen him destroy Penn State, followed him closely for the rest of the season, and named him No.1 on my Heisman ballot. But Notre Dame receiver Tim Brown won the trophy by a comfortable margin over McPherson. So Ernie Davis still stands alone and, now, his memory may stand forever.
I love sports and I love movies, therefore I must love sports movies. If you agree witjh that statement you've just flunked Logic 101. Indeed, I find many sports movies insipid, inaccurate and incredibly formulaic. The good guys always win, unless it's a boxing movie, in which case the good guy, if there is one, will often lose (Raging Bull, Cinderella Man, The Harder They Fall, Requiem for a Heavyweight)--or even die (Champion, Million Dollar Baby.) David always beats Goliath, without even resorting to a slingshot, and always on the last play of the game or the final stride of the race. Usually there are some incredible obstacles to overcome, most often posed by a cheating, treacherous opponent. Or else there's the tough-as-nails coach with a soft spot in his heart who relentlessly spurs the protagonist to an improbable victory.
So, it was with little enthusiasm that I went to see The Express over the week-end. My wife and I try to see a movie once a week, usually on Sunday afternoon. Our tastes are fairly similar, although she tends to like what I consider "weepers" more than I do and I like Westerns more than she does. We both like foreign films and ensemble movies, which usually feature several good acting performances. We pretty much like the same actors (Phillip Seymour Hoffman, William H. Macy, Tim Robbins and Ed Harris to name a few) and will usually go to their films no matter what the critics say about them. Although she can take sports--up to a point--or leave them alone, it ironically is she who usually suggests seeing a sports-themed movie.
Since we'd seen most of the movies playing at our nearby theaters, or at least all of them we cared to see, The Express seemed about the best we were going to do. I personally would have preferred to stay home and watch the Dolphins find a new way to blow a football game, but that would not have been prudent. In these tough economic times, divorce is not an option.
I liked the movie. Really liked it. The story of Ernie Davis of Syracuse, the first black Heisman Trophy winner, was not unfamiliar to me. I knew he had followed Jim Brown to Syracuse, had played brilliantly, and had died of leukemia before he could play pro ball. I did not know, although I probably should have, that in 1959 racial hatred was still so rampant on the playing fields of America.
Two of the more memorable scenes in the movie involve racist abuse--shouted epithets, thrown bottles, death threats--from fans at a game in West Virginia and again in the Cotton bowl in Dallas. The conduct by Texas Longhorn players and fans when Syracuse played for the national championship in the 1960 Cotton bowl seemed so outrageous I thought it was probably exaggerated. There were scenes of Texas players piling on Davis, throwing punches and inciting a half time brawl. "That was a little over the top," I told my wife afterwards. But when I got home I Googled it on my computer and found that even the headlines in the next day's Dallas paper mentioned "punches thrown."
The Express is not only Ernie Davis' story, but that of Syracuse Coach Ben Schwartzwalder, played superbly by Dennis Quaid. Schwartzwalder is portrayed as an old school coach who is trying to cope with a changing world. "You're not here to play games," he tells his team. "You're here to win games." While not overtly racist--after all he has recruited two black super stars and will afterwards recruit many more--Schwartzwalder seems to not want to challenge the status quo. When Davis runs the ball down to the West Virginia 5-yard line, the coach wants to pull him out of the game to let a white teammate get the touchdown. His rationale is that if Davis dented the end zone, the crowd might segue from hostile to murderous.
While his relationship with Jim Brown, who probably should have been the first black Heisman winner, seemed a little strained--Brown after all was, in the Jackie Robinson mold, a man who did not hide his feelings--Quaid's Schwartzwalder seemed to develop a close bond with Davis, portrayed by Rob Brown.
The football scenes are not entirely realistic, with Davis often leaping over several defenders and alternately knocking them down or spinning away from them two at a time. His 87-yard touchdown gallop in the Cotton bowl seems to be twice that long. But most of the incidents shown in the movie did occur.
For Syracuse football the 1959 National championship was a lofty perch that would not even be approached again for nearly 30 years. Schwartzwalder continued to recruit great running backs like Floyd Little, Jim Nance and Larry Csonka. He had some measure of success, but eventually was fired in the wake of a revolt of black players at a time when similar uprisings were occurring across the country.
In 1987 the Orangemen, under Dick MacPherson, made a national championship run. They went 11-0 in the regular season, including a 48-21 dismantling of Penn State. Unranked in the preseason polls, it took the Orangemen half the season to get noticed and they never got higher than No.4, which is where they finished. The season ended in a bittersweet Sugar bowl when, eschewing a chance to win or lose the game on the final play from the Syracuse 13, Auburn coach Pat Dye sent kicker Win (or tie) Lyle onto the field for a 30-yard field goal that produced a 16-16 tie.
There was a bittersweet ending, too, for quarterback Don McPherson, who should have become the second Syracuse Heisman winner. I had seen him destroy Penn State, followed him closely for the rest of the season, and named him No.1 on my Heisman ballot. But Notre Dame receiver Tim Brown won the trophy by a comfortable margin over McPherson. So Ernie Davis still stands alone and, now, his memory may stand forever.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
By Bob Markus
No mas. I surrender. I've finally found the antidote for my seemingly incurable case of Cubs' fever. Thank you, Alfonso Soriano. Thank you, Ryan Dempster. Thank you, Aramis Ramirez. I always thought that to be a Cubs fan was to be shackled forever to a dream--a bad dream. A Cubs fan is born, not made. A Cubs fan can no more stop being a Cubs fan than he can stop the rotation of the earth around the sun. To a Cubs fan, the boys in blue ARE the sun. His credo is: The sun will come out tomorrow.
No it won't.
There is no tomorrow for this wretched tease of a franchise. All their tomorrows were used up in the hideous three-game meltdown last week that finally freed me from a lifetime of enslavement. I've lived 1,000 dreams with the Chicago Cubs and died 1,000 deaths. But, no mas. Never again.
The Cubs did not just lose a National league division playoff to the Los Angeles Dodgers, they lost their self-respect. They lost their dignity. And at long, long last, they lost me. What a relief! I no longer will have to awaken at 1 in the morning and rush to my computer to find out how the Cubs did on the west coast. I no longer will have to worry about whether Soriano will break his slump or Kerry Woods will break a toe or Carlos Zambrano will break a bat over his knee.
I'll always have my Cubs' memories. I'll have my yesterdays, But I won't have my tomorrows. Nor, I'm now convinced, will the Cubs themselves. No matter how well they perform during the regular season, no matter how many games they win, how many baseballs they send over the ivy walls of Wrigley and onto Sheffield Avenue, when playoff time rolls around they'll choke.
That is perhaps too harsh a word. I can remember sitting in the Yankees dugout one day in 1979 and talking with Tommy John, whom I'd known since his days as a White Sox rookie. Michigan State had just beaten Indiana State for the NCAA championship a few weeks earlier, and I said that Larry Bird, who had been practically a one-man team for the previously unbeaten Sycamores, had choked down the stretch. John was more than incensed. He was outraged. "Never say that," he rasped. "Never say an athlete choked."
I'm sorry, Tommy, but what am I supposed to say when a Soriano, one of baseball's highest paid performers, constantly swings--and misses--at balls two feet off the plate? What am I to say when Ramirez, the Cubs' leading r.b.i. man, known for his clutch hitting, pounds the ball futility into the dirt on at bat after at bat with runners on base? What am I to say when Dempster, with his gaudy 14-3 record at Wrigley Field, walks seven men and, almost inevitably, gives up a grand slam homer, to set the tone for the entire three-game fiasco? What am I supposed to say when a sure-handed second baseman and a Gold Glove first baseman kick successive double play balls that lead to four unearned runs?
All right, I'll take it back. The Cubs didn't choke. They just succumbed to the pressure of their 100 years of World Series futilty and the corresponding expectations of their fans. Oh, well, as Jack Brickhouse used to say: "Anyone can have a bad century." But, then, as Al Jolson used to say: "You ain't seen nothing yet."
I've seen enough. I've been a Cubs' fan for nearly 70 years. I was 7-years-old when I got my first glimpse of Wrigley Field. It was a double header on the Fourth of July in 1941 against the St. Louis Cardinals and I'll never forget the sight of the Cardinals' outfielders--Johnny Hopp, Terry Moore, and Country Slaughter--chasing down fly balls as gracefully as gazelles during fielding practice. During the war years, when my father was in the army, serving in Attu in the Aleutian islands, my mother would take me to the ball park on ladies day, when she got in free and I think I paid 25 cents. I remember seeing the New York Giants with player-manager Mel Ott, whose odd batting style--he used to raise his right leg two feet off the ground before exploding into the pitch--belied his 511 career home runs.
It was while watching a game at Wrigley that I discovered I needed glasses;I couldn't read the numbers on the players' backs, as my uncle dutifully reported to my mother when we got home. I was in the center field bleachers for the famous "home run inside the glove" play when Andy Pafko insisted he had caught a sinking liner by the Cardinals' Glenn Nelson and held the ball in the air for the umpires to see while Nelson circled the bases. I had an unobstructed view and I was wearing my glasses and I can tell Andy with certitude that he trapped the ball.
I was in the upper grandstand when Don Cardwell pitched his no-hitter in his first start for the Cubs and I was in the press box when Kenny Holtzman pitched his first no-hitter. That was in 1969 and we were all certain it was an omen, that next year was here. It wasn't, of course, even though the Cubs had three future Hall-of-Famers--Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and Fergie Jenkins--on the roster and, a fourth, Ron Santo, who should be in the Hall.
The Cubs had a better team than the New York Mets, who won the World Series that year, just as they had a better team than the Dodgers this year. If there is anyone I feel sorry for it is Santo, who wears his broken Cubbie heart on his sleeve every day. I'm sure that Santo, as down as he must be after this latest heartbreak, will recover in time and next spring, when the players report to spring training in February, he will hear the crack of the bat and the crackle of a fastball smacking the catcher's mitt and his spirit will bloom again. He will believe again.
Not me. I've finally given up on the notion that the Cubs will even reach the World Series, let alone win it, in my lifetime. I'll probably still watch some of their games. But not as many. In my heart, I suppose, I'll still care. But not as deeply. I've been in love with the Cubs my whole life, but now I've lost my respect for them. I want a divorce.
No mas. I surrender. I've finally found the antidote for my seemingly incurable case of Cubs' fever. Thank you, Alfonso Soriano. Thank you, Ryan Dempster. Thank you, Aramis Ramirez. I always thought that to be a Cubs fan was to be shackled forever to a dream--a bad dream. A Cubs fan is born, not made. A Cubs fan can no more stop being a Cubs fan than he can stop the rotation of the earth around the sun. To a Cubs fan, the boys in blue ARE the sun. His credo is: The sun will come out tomorrow.
No it won't.
There is no tomorrow for this wretched tease of a franchise. All their tomorrows were used up in the hideous three-game meltdown last week that finally freed me from a lifetime of enslavement. I've lived 1,000 dreams with the Chicago Cubs and died 1,000 deaths. But, no mas. Never again.
The Cubs did not just lose a National league division playoff to the Los Angeles Dodgers, they lost their self-respect. They lost their dignity. And at long, long last, they lost me. What a relief! I no longer will have to awaken at 1 in the morning and rush to my computer to find out how the Cubs did on the west coast. I no longer will have to worry about whether Soriano will break his slump or Kerry Woods will break a toe or Carlos Zambrano will break a bat over his knee.
I'll always have my Cubs' memories. I'll have my yesterdays, But I won't have my tomorrows. Nor, I'm now convinced, will the Cubs themselves. No matter how well they perform during the regular season, no matter how many games they win, how many baseballs they send over the ivy walls of Wrigley and onto Sheffield Avenue, when playoff time rolls around they'll choke.
That is perhaps too harsh a word. I can remember sitting in the Yankees dugout one day in 1979 and talking with Tommy John, whom I'd known since his days as a White Sox rookie. Michigan State had just beaten Indiana State for the NCAA championship a few weeks earlier, and I said that Larry Bird, who had been practically a one-man team for the previously unbeaten Sycamores, had choked down the stretch. John was more than incensed. He was outraged. "Never say that," he rasped. "Never say an athlete choked."
I'm sorry, Tommy, but what am I supposed to say when a Soriano, one of baseball's highest paid performers, constantly swings--and misses--at balls two feet off the plate? What am I to say when Ramirez, the Cubs' leading r.b.i. man, known for his clutch hitting, pounds the ball futility into the dirt on at bat after at bat with runners on base? What am I to say when Dempster, with his gaudy 14-3 record at Wrigley Field, walks seven men and, almost inevitably, gives up a grand slam homer, to set the tone for the entire three-game fiasco? What am I supposed to say when a sure-handed second baseman and a Gold Glove first baseman kick successive double play balls that lead to four unearned runs?
All right, I'll take it back. The Cubs didn't choke. They just succumbed to the pressure of their 100 years of World Series futilty and the corresponding expectations of their fans. Oh, well, as Jack Brickhouse used to say: "Anyone can have a bad century." But, then, as Al Jolson used to say: "You ain't seen nothing yet."
I've seen enough. I've been a Cubs' fan for nearly 70 years. I was 7-years-old when I got my first glimpse of Wrigley Field. It was a double header on the Fourth of July in 1941 against the St. Louis Cardinals and I'll never forget the sight of the Cardinals' outfielders--Johnny Hopp, Terry Moore, and Country Slaughter--chasing down fly balls as gracefully as gazelles during fielding practice. During the war years, when my father was in the army, serving in Attu in the Aleutian islands, my mother would take me to the ball park on ladies day, when she got in free and I think I paid 25 cents. I remember seeing the New York Giants with player-manager Mel Ott, whose odd batting style--he used to raise his right leg two feet off the ground before exploding into the pitch--belied his 511 career home runs.
It was while watching a game at Wrigley that I discovered I needed glasses;I couldn't read the numbers on the players' backs, as my uncle dutifully reported to my mother when we got home. I was in the center field bleachers for the famous "home run inside the glove" play when Andy Pafko insisted he had caught a sinking liner by the Cardinals' Glenn Nelson and held the ball in the air for the umpires to see while Nelson circled the bases. I had an unobstructed view and I was wearing my glasses and I can tell Andy with certitude that he trapped the ball.
I was in the upper grandstand when Don Cardwell pitched his no-hitter in his first start for the Cubs and I was in the press box when Kenny Holtzman pitched his first no-hitter. That was in 1969 and we were all certain it was an omen, that next year was here. It wasn't, of course, even though the Cubs had three future Hall-of-Famers--Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and Fergie Jenkins--on the roster and, a fourth, Ron Santo, who should be in the Hall.
The Cubs had a better team than the New York Mets, who won the World Series that year, just as they had a better team than the Dodgers this year. If there is anyone I feel sorry for it is Santo, who wears his broken Cubbie heart on his sleeve every day. I'm sure that Santo, as down as he must be after this latest heartbreak, will recover in time and next spring, when the players report to spring training in February, he will hear the crack of the bat and the crackle of a fastball smacking the catcher's mitt and his spirit will bloom again. He will believe again.
Not me. I've finally given up on the notion that the Cubs will even reach the World Series, let alone win it, in my lifetime. I'll probably still watch some of their games. But not as many. In my heart, I suppose, I'll still care. But not as deeply. I've been in love with the Cubs my whole life, but now I've lost my respect for them. I want a divorce.
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