Evolution of a Cubs Fan

As I think we've pretty well established by now, I'm an idiot. If you are a regular reader of mine, you're probably nodding your head right now and saying, "Yep, Frank's pretty much an idiot." I point this out because it's the only real explanation for being a Chicago Cubs fan.

I fell in love with the Cubs at age ten when I was too young and dumb to know any better-like the fact girls have some nice bumps and curves and fun stuff under their clothes. Had I known then what I know now, I'd have skipped the stupid Cubs and gone directly to the girls.

I was already acquainted with the object of my affection for several years, but it wasn't until the 1964 season that I fell head-over-heels, completely unaware that for the next 46 years, the bumbling Cubs would annually do that exact same thing. I would run home from school to catch the last inning or two of my heroes on TV. Naturally, by the time I got home, they'd usually be losing, but I really didn't care that much-not yet anyway. I thought that in time, the Cubs would be good and win lots of games. Hell, I was only ten-I had plenty of years ahead of me and the Cubs were bound to get better before I got old. And thus were the first signs that I may be an idiot.

Just so they could suck me in further before stomping all over me, the Cubs started winning games and began to screw with me. I had only been a fan a few years and already they looked to be on the verge of building a winner-a championship ballclub. Of course that all fell apart and so did my dreams, but I was still just a teen and I had many Cubs seasons ahead of me. Idiot that I was, I thought they were bound to win it all sooner or later.

After more than a decade of unbelievably hideous crap passing for "baseball," the Cubs were good again and in 1984 came to within one win of going to the World Series. I believed it would happen! I was stupid. The Cubs never won that one game and I was starting to get frustrated. I was 30-not getting any younger-and began to wonder if 20 years prior, I had maybe made a bad decision.

The Cubs floundered again with just a handful of decent seasons, but overall they sucked until 2003. That year, everything was falling into place and my Cubbies were on their way to finally getting to the World Series. I paced nervously counting down the outs-just five to go! Forgetting all the Cubs had taught me over the years, I started to believe again.

Yes, I had forgotten the first rule of being a Cubs fan: If you wish to maintain your sanity, never, ever expect victory. Ever! Hey, I'm talking to you stupid!

As a young, naïve Cubs fan, I had broken that rule many times, but eventually learned how painful that could be. It's kind of like sticking your hand in fire-the first few times, the flames are so beautiful you just can't help yourself, but eventually you catch on. Of course, in spite of knowing the pain the Cubs had caused in the past, I broke that rule again on October 14, 2003-a date that shall live in infamy. My hands are still scarred and it was then that I promised myself never to do that again.

With just five outs to go, Steve Bartman happened and after that everything changed. Sure, it was only a foul ball. Sure, the Cubs still had a 3-0 lead. Sure, they still only needed five outs. But just like any baby-boomer Cubs fan who'd been through years and years of baseball hell, I knew what would happen next. I knew it! We all did. I'd bore you with what happened, but I'd probably puke all over my keyboard while writing the hideous details.

But I've learned my lesson. I no longer get upset. I don't throw things at my TV. I don't get up and pace back and forth during tense moments. I just sit back in my recliner with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. The Cubs leave the bases loaded for the umpteenth time. "Screw 'em," I mutter as I change to the Food Channel.

Now my relationship with the Cubs is of the love-hate variety-I still love them, and hate myself for doing so. I'm disgusted with the fact that I've wasted hours upon hours of watching the bumbling idiots screw with my emotions. Hell, I despise most of the players anyway. They're just a bunch of spoiled, millionaire mercenaries. They don't care about me or any other Cubs fan. After they collect their millions here, they'll move on to somewhere else. I mean really-am I supposed to feel sorry for the numb-nuts in left field who just dropped an easy fly? He'll drive home in his Lamborghini to his hot wife and multi-million dollar house while I'll be searching between the sofa cushions for enough change to go buy a case of beer and drown my sorrows. And why? I didn't drop the ball. Dumbass did!

There is no longer joy in watching the Cubs, even when they are playing well. In 2008, the Cubs won 97 games to lead the National League and headed to the post-season as favorites to play in the World Series. But I'm not that stupid. I always know better than to trust the Cubs and I knew they'd fall on their collective asses. I wasn't even that disappointed. I had nearly half a century of personal experience to know how it would all play out, so I was prepared. I drank a few beers and shook my head, "Same old Cubs."

Now when I go to Wrigley Field, I feel no tension. I'm not worried about the outcome of the game. I just sit in the bleachers, have a brew or two, people watch (some of hottest women on the planet can be found in the Wrigley Field bleachers), and just look around the most historic stadium in baseball.

I look to my left at the center field bleachers and realize this is the area Babe Ruth's fabled "called shot" landed against the Cubs in the 1932 World Series. I look to my right toward the Cubs bullpen and see the spot where Bartman was sitting when he got his dirty, little hands in the way of what would have put the Cubs just four outs away from the 2003 World Series. I glance up at the big scoreboard to check the score just in case the Cubs have done something positive while I've been sitting here daydreaming. Nope, they're still losing to the horseshit Pirates, of all teams. Down on the field in front of me is the Cubs leftfielder Alfonso Soriano, looking up to us in the bleachers as we hold up our fingers to show him how many outs there are in the inning. "What a dumbass." I say to my wife.

But I don't care. Like Jack Nicholson after receiving several shock treatments in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I'm comfortably numb. It doesn't matter anymore. The Cubs will never be a winner in my lifetime. I know this and I'm OK with it.

After all, I'm an idiot.