Prophecy

In some cultures, they bury your umbilical cord underneath a tree so you'll always be able to find your way home.

In Chicago, depending on what side of town you're from, they give you a baseball cap.

Being born in Elgin to a guy who came to this country and lived on Addison and Harlem, my hat was blue rather than black.

Home is a concept that's become increasingly difficult to define as our world grows older.  One of the signature concepts of modernity in general and the current brand in particular is an anchorlessness that beckons us away from our homes and into the misty plains of diaspora.  There's no use, it's hegemony and its siren pull is too strong, too enticing to resist.  Move away, leave it all behind, rack up your frequent flier miles trying to recapture what it is you've forsaken.

It's true.  

You really can't go back.

It's a little too much like the second act of The Fantasticks.  You've seen too much, the context  that home now lives within has altered its meaning, and all that remains is the sickly sweet aftertaste of something you can never have again.

 
That's the beauty of being a Cubs fan.

A real Cubs fan, not a Bandwagoneer V1.0, a fratboy who's looking for the biggest open air party north of Grant Park, one who knows enough not to boo Sox fans, for they're our brothers in arms.

A real fan, one who learned at a young age that being a Cubs fan was a lifelong calling, a double-edged blade of suffering and redemption akin only to Catholicism in its demands of faith.

Watching this season has been heart-wrenching for me. We're how many games up?  How many above .500?  This is a math that most Cubs fans are unable, due to the articles of the faith to even begin to comprehend.  I cannot believe, my faith falters as we come in for the approach.

But I know that somewhere Steve Goodman is singing.

I know, because I believe that down in the Billy Goat of the hereafter Mike Royko is ordering a round for the house while Harry Caray is saying "I told you so."

I know that my Uncle Sal is smiling.

Because this one is for Santo and my Mom.  This one is for those of us who are still here to watch one more season in the sun, the rain, the gloaming and yes, even the  lights.

For this is our time.

This is our year.

I know this because of prophecy.  I know this because of faith.

I proposed to my wife and hours later Sammy Sosa hit his 500th home run.

I married my wife and hours later Greg Maddux won his 300th game.

It then, only goes to follow that my child will come into this world with their Cubs as World Series Champs.

So they'd better get cracking, because Toaster's gonna be here in February.