I’m lookin’ at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna f***in’ smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You’re so pretty. — Barry Egan

This weekend, a few things happened to me. I’ll start with the bad: the Cubs lost.

You already know this. It’s been two days since the Chicago Cubs disappointed you, and me, in the sort of total and damning way only they seem to be able to pull off. And because it’s been a couple of days, you’ve likely read or heard the following words in some combination 40 times: “curse,” “next year,” “Bartman,” “It’s Not Gonna Happen,” “100 years,” “heartbreak,” et. al. If you’re anything like me, you read or heard them while bleary from drink, exhausted from enthusiasm, and drained by disappointment.

Of course Saturday, and the ensuing coverage, was bad enough, but that wasn’t the worst of it. It was Thursday night. And it was Friday. It was the worst interim to be a Cubs fan because no matter what, the trained blind faith that goes with the territory met the surety — though not mathematical, surety all the same — that I, we, would have to carry on like nothing was wrong. Friends planning a flight to L.A. would still go; fans wanting tickets to the NLCS would still buy them. We would still watch. As if it mattered.

I don’t know if there is anything wrong because I don’t know how other people are. — Barry Egan

Cubs fans — and I have only been a Cubs fan for about 18 years; I am 23 — seem especially predisposed to this. The reputation is a cliche now. Cubs fans, thanks to their loyalty, have overseen a century of utter failure, a century in which they made the Cubs, this nation’s losingest franchise, one of its most popular. It takes a special kind of fandom to smile in the face of such failure, no? It takes a different kind of person to sit willingly by — nay, enjoy — such utter incompetence.

That’s the reputation, anyway.

I didn’t ask for a shrink - that must’ve been somebody else. Also, that pudding isn’t mine. Also, I’m wearing this suit today because I had a very important meeting this morning and I don’t have a crying problem. — Barry Egan

But of course we don’t admit that. Instead, Cubs fans are suddenly convinced of their own competitive chops.

No more, we say, will we stand by and merely enjoy the beauty of baseball. We won’t sit up in the bleachers and marvel at how we just walked from our apartments, maybe 10 minutes at most, (which if you squint and crane your neck you can almost see!) to be at this urban oasis of green and nostalgia. We won’t wonder how we ended up being so lucky in life that we get to do this, say, 15 or 16 times in a season — just sitting here, with friends, having a beer, talking baseball, flirting with girls, passing around the dollar cup, chewing tobacco, laughing at Ronnie Woo Woo, patting each other on the back and making fun of that bright yellow golf hat — really? — your buddy bought last inning. It’s a Saturday. Life couldn’t possibly be better than this.

Now we think it could. Baseball is not the end itself anymore. It is the mere means by which we become Winners. We insist on it — we are Winners. Please. You have to believe us.

And bye-bye. And bye-bye, you f–kin’… And bye-bye! You stupid motherf–ker… — Barry Egan

Sigh. That’s not the truth, is it? Can we admit that to ourselves? That we cheer for the Cubs for all the right reasons, but that saying we enjoy life without a successful baseball team is not the worst thing in the world. Can we say that?

Can we admit that in the course of attempting to prove that we are not satisfied, that we are fans in all the same ways as Yankee fans or Red Sox fans or Royals fans, we are losing something? The same something that makes us unique in the first place?

Here’s another thing that happened to me this weekend: I woke up Sunday morning (er, Sunday afternoon), and things were the same. I had no game to look forward to. That was momentarily sad. And then I flipped on my laptop and messed around for a little bit, and I turned on the baseball playoffs, and then text-messaged some friends, and that was basically that. Things were the same.

Was I sad that the Cubs didn’t win? Do I want them to do so, more than almost anything? Yes. But things were, as far as I could tell, the same.

And then something else happened: A close friend — a best friend — came over and gave me the best gift I’ve ever received. It was a (miraculously) signed copy of the Gary Smith Cubs Sports Illustrated issue, complete with a note from Gary apologizing for misspelling my name in the story. “Best, Gary Smith.”

But you haven’t even heard the best part yet! No, the best part was my friend’s note. It read:

“E –

When dealing with some of the bullshit, always remember what you still have: Saturdays in the bleachers.

Your friend,
Paul”

If ever I’ve forgotten that — and the past few weeks, I believe I, we have — I will never do so again.

—-

I have so much strength in me you have no idea. I have a love in my life. It makes me stronger than anything you can imagine. — Barry Egan