October 8, 2008

It’s Official: God Must Hate The Cubs

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Joke’s over, God. Really, it’s not funny any more. Frankly, it’s a little mean. And it pisses me off.
Making the Cubs lose like that was just unfair. I’m not even kidding. I can take being upset. I can take hurt. But I can’t take the arbitrary punishment any more. Apparently, you like kicking people while they’re down, abusing those who wouldn’t even fight back in the first place.
I don’t even know how to deal with a team like the 2008 Cubs getting knocked out of the playoffs like that. I waited for the lump to rise up in my throat; waited for the desire to curl up in the fetal position and feel sorry for myself, feel sorry for the Cubs.
But all I felt was clench-your-fists, purse-your-lips anger. I was livid.
When the Cubs came within five outs of the World Series in 2003, I lay spread eagle on my living room floor and cried. I thought I would never get back up, I thought something had been ripped from my chest.
But at least I felt something, anything. I cared. I wanted to hug the Cubs and tell them it was going to be OK. Life’s a bitch. We all move on — together.
Saturday night, though, the Cubs died.
There was no one to hug. No shoulder to cry on. Just a funeral for an old friend I felt like I didn’t even know any more because I hadn’t seen him in so long. My friend is gone and you killed him.
And I don’t even know if I want him back.
Maybe there’s a reason you killed the Cubs. Maybe it’s better for me. Maybe you’re trying to tell me something. I know my relationship with the Cubs wasn’t always healthy. I know I sacrificed a lot for it. But damn it, it always seemed worth it. I never questioned my commitment because I cared so damn much. It was unrequited love. It was.
But I’m stubborn. And you damn well know it.
If you’re trying to tell me something, if you’re trying to take something away from me, then take it away. Stop toying with me. Stop dangling them in front of my face. If I’m going to get divorced, I don’t want to live next to my divorcee.
And that is why you’re so mean.
You can’t do this to me and expect that I will be strong enough to stay away. When it comes to the Cubs, you know I have as much willpower as a bug heading towards a zapper. This isn’t a life lesson. This is just like throwing me in maximum-security prison without a conviction or even a trial.
I want to know what I did to deserve this. You at least owe me an explanation. An explanation as to why you would go and make the Cubs the best team in the National League — hell, in baseball — for six months, then turn them into the Bad News Bears for three games once the playoffs rolled around. You had to make them the best Cubs team since talkies were new and exciting.
Last year, when the Cubs backed into the playoffs with an up-and-down team, it was like finding that Frosted Mini Wheat with way too much frosting on it — a sweet surprise that you knew would be fleeting.
But you got us real good this time, didn’t you. Last year wasn’t enough. The 2003 season wasn’t enough. Like a bad boxer, you knew we could absorb the blows and get up from our stool to meet the bell even though we couldn’t see straight.
Well now you’ve really outdone yourself. You finally found a way. I mean, come on. Did you really have to make every Cubs infielder have to have an error in Game 2? Did you do that just because you knew every journalist would be forced to look up the last time that happened — 74 years ago by the way — just so the Cubs could be saddled with some other mark of playoff futility?
That’s vindictive.
And I thought you loved everyone.