Now Playing: Baseball for One and All
The splintering of pine shattered the daydreams and muffled conversations of thousands. Twice as many small little white orbits magnetized to the orbit of a blood-shot, pearly white sphere, whose orbit was anything but orthodox. The ball avoided conventional trajectory, while the barrel of the bat whip-lashed towards the visiting dugout. Minus those handful of uniforms, an entire throng of folks worried about the short, stagnant path of the 9 1/4 inches of cubed leather that we had all come to witness. As the violent spin sent the ball down the line, it took a 30-degree turn at third, and rapidly increased as it flew, a bowling ball in small proportions, rolling through air. The ball screamed over the four-foot fence just before the bullpen, landing at excruciating speeds just half a moment after hurdling the fence, and suddenly the majesty of the flight turned deadly as the spin choose where it wanted to go. Straightening out down the line again, changing directions on a nickel, like a jackrabbit being chased by a cougar, seemingly gaining speed. As those on the first base side watched the spectacle, waiting to see what would happen next, fans in the far corner were head jerking to watch the carom, and their faces ugly as arms failed to shield before it was too late. One young, blonde, hat and mitt donned boy seemed to appear from nowhere, hung by the angels in the foul-field right where he needed to be—almost. While he leapt half-way down the small grass hill on the leftfield line, his mitt was shy, falling short, the webbing spindled to catch flies, not fouls. As the crowd gasped and exhaled in unison, the boy fell and rolled, pulling his cap over his eyes, as he knew that was an “Ozzie” he just botched. Somehow, the ball landed on the Kentucky grass in fair-left, with few realizing how the young boy made out such a play. It happened in an instant, and many believed the ball was magical, dancing between several stages like a circus clown. Little did everyone know, as the young boy fell from his soapbox in tragic glory, the ball had taken a ferocious plunk off a young woman’s forehead. As she fell in agony over the seams implanted into her flesh, her partner, a young man who looked 25 and who looked like the boyfriend, emerged from his crouched position beneath his arms, which shielded his head as he took cover, only to allow the ball to scream past him to his now-injured better half. With a blend of cheers—for the boy—and jeers—for the man, the stadium shook with humanity, and yet no response was as dignified as the look on the woman’s face when she realized the turn of events. The glare was wicked, she shook him off, once, twice, wiped the sweat from her brow, checked over her shoulders and threw one high and inside—this time he didn’t dodge. However, he didn’t walk on, he was out.

Cubdo(o)m
Now Playing: Confines
When is enough, enough? When is the limit reached, breached, to the point where we must get past a prayer and begin to preach? Sacrilegious, profane, masochism, chastise, right down to the worst "ism" of all--realism. These problems face millions of loyal citizens more than half of a year's time. This loyal allegiance is bally-hooed, wooed, "woo-woo"-ed, and most of all, booed by those on the outside looking in, who think we could never have enough. "Lay it on like mustid on a polish sahsig!" We have sacrificed years, tears, goats & entire summers; staking claim as the only organization within the States after the second World War that has failed to produce a successful run of any real proportion. Blame black cats, a muffed routine roller and a renegade counterpart. I speak of the Chicago Cubs and the organization that supports them, Cubbie Nation.

As another year rolls by, we have been spoiled by unrealistic expectations of a series coming to town. Most recently, the whiff of magic that overtook the most famous four corners in all of baseball: Addison, Clark, Sheffield & Waveland. As throngs of people packed like sardines out of water on Waveland and Sheffield, they became the living ivy that the ball so famously is lost. The city was abuzz from miles away, making the most news and riling more people since the Monsters of the Midway. A romp through the playoffs with such poise and grit, everyone in a nation of over 250 million knew it was very realistic, "The Cubs might go to the series in my lifetime," a fun one-line that has turned silly to crazy to incredulous, mostly because it rang so true. October of '03, two games they said, "They won't beat our aces back-to-back." Five outs and a game they said, "GASHDAMITALL! We'll be ok." Five outs and a game they said, "GASHDAMITALL, he's the best fielder at his position in the majors!" One game they said, "The K-Kid's got it. Forget that foul yestaday." Looking the "I-told-you-so"-ers in the face just one game later saw the reddest Cubbie blue of all-time. As they cat-called instead of consoled. We still have aspirations, and the naysayers still have their lines.

I hate to admit, but this year is over. The pine isn't hot in late June & early July; are they waiting for an invitation? The top of the lineup is Usual Suspects, apparently brought in for nothing. The pen is young and leaking over everyone's pocket protector; and a first name basis with the team trainer is awful in every shape of the word. I not only have given up hope for this year, I have given up on this particular team of players. Until there is a turnover like a country kitchen's hot grill, (Hold the mustid), I guarantee you will see nothing amazing from this collection of players. From top to bottom, it won't happen. Forget about new stars located at different corners of the diamond, they'll have no fault. Our aces are flawed, and they weren't found in the rough, they want to retire there, but hardly in disappointment. The heart of one being cannot be so easily transplanted as the heart of another--kick that idea from here to Boston you hams; that's just nature. What makes this clock stop on tick is bordering abolishment on all levels of my belief and those on this eternal bandwagon. This shames sacrilege; impious shouted from the top of 35th & Dan Ryan; endorsing blasphemy from Patriot to Raider and every grain between. The Cubs will not win a World Series until the friendly confines become hostile from within. An exorcism, erasing the memories of decades & generations past, shaking the cobwebs off the Red Line, burning the green ivy with a Godly power: Wrigley Field should be blown to smithereens. We've tried everything else: enough is enough.

--Written by J. Joseph Byrnes III

Introduction
Now Playing: me
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