My grandfather was a Chicago Cubs fan. So is my dad. So is my son, and so am I. To borrow the term, we bleed Cubbie Blue, through and through.
The Chicago Cubs have been Major League Baseball's ambassadors of the American Midwest for well over a hundred years. They represent our hopes, our dreams, our desires, our ambitions, and our sweat and our hard work.
We Midwesterners don't need someone to tell us that life sucks. Every asshole that we have to deal with at work, at the store, in the neighborhood, or on the highways does that for us. Yet every time our Boys in Blue take the field, we get back on our feet, smack the dust off our fannies, and renew our eternal pledge to overcome those who keep trying to knock us back down. Each game and each inning is another opportunity for fulfillment, another shot at reaching our dream.
We are not lovable losers. We are strong, tough, determined men and women who want our well-earned piece of the pie. And we will not stop. We will work until what is rightfully ours is in our hands. And when that day comes, it will feel so God-damned great that it will re-invigorate our spirit to begin that long quest all over again, from scratch if needs must.
The excitement and camaraderie of the crowd, the thrill of the action, the analysis of the intricate strategy, the feel of sunshine and a fresh Lake Michigan breeze on our skin, the taste of a hot dog and a cold beer (or soda) on our lips, the joy of a run crossing the plate, the delight of the seventh inning stretch sing-along, the cathartic emotional release of a well earned victory, all of the time-honored Wrigley Field traditions: these will nurture and sustain us through time and through our daily trials. When we're dog-ass tired at the end of the day from all that we have to do and put up with just to survive, we know we'll always have our Cubs to take us to a better place, and that's enough. Go, Cubs, go.
