The fog of birthday revelry has me away from posting anything of substance for now. A few quick hits- the Cubs are doing as they have been the last few games...finding any and every way to lose in spite of the other team doing it's best to do the same.
Glass half full- they have 9 or so on the disabled, which encompases nearly every superstar. Even so, they are only in third place, and could be worse. Glass half empty-these games count and it's too late in the season to say its still early. I only hope they get healthy quick and start winning, I refuse to believe this can last. It just can't.
Right now..The Cubs flat out stink as a ballclub, and they are only getting worse.
Cross them fingers people. Birthday pics to come.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Blah blah blah
Frozen pizza, Cubs and four hour old coffee...mmmm, must be my birthday.
I have yet to decide exactly why I set this blog up in the first place. I dont have much to say anymore, really. Maybe I can use it to post future cartoons and such. For now I will simply add Cubs rantings when I remember to, and leave it at that.
Cubs are getting whooped. Remlinger is back. Sosa is still out. Wood is not due until mid June. Prior (if he REALLY exists) allegedly threw 4 innings for... the...Deluth...Slackjaw Bullcranks, or something. Great. Throw 8 and 1/2 for the Cubs at home and I'll be happy. Until then, the eternal pessimist in me already knows the outcome. Prior will return, throw one single solitary pitch that will get pounded right back into his elbow, whereby the scoreboard will explode and come crashing down on him, Sosa and Alou.
I'm bitter. So sue me.
-K
I have yet to decide exactly why I set this blog up in the first place. I dont have much to say anymore, really. Maybe I can use it to post future cartoons and such. For now I will simply add Cubs rantings when I remember to, and leave it at that.
Cubs are getting whooped. Remlinger is back. Sosa is still out. Wood is not due until mid June. Prior (if he REALLY exists) allegedly threw 4 innings for... the...Deluth...Slackjaw Bullcranks, or something. Great. Throw 8 and 1/2 for the Cubs at home and I'll be happy. Until then, the eternal pessimist in me already knows the outcome. Prior will return, throw one single solitary pitch that will get pounded right back into his elbow, whereby the scoreboard will explode and come crashing down on him, Sosa and Alou.
I'm bitter. So sue me.
-K
Monday, May 24, 2004
St. Louis Blues
I missed the Cubs saturday for the first time this year. Work had me hopping and there was no way to listen to even a second of Pat Hughes' expert play by play, or Ron Santo's heart grabbing gafaws over ever swing and pitch. Sorry guys, I wont let it happen again. Our guys won that game and the next as well, if only just barely. Doing so, they are tied for first with the Reds. Cool. Now, lets see what we can do to make out spot on the top of the scoreboard flagpole less crowded, until then...QUIT FRIGGIN' RAINING. I'm not sure the exact amount but I think I heard that in the last week we have had over four hundred squintillian bazillion gallons of rain. (My four year old likes to do weather forcasts. He has an autographed picture of Tom Skilling on his wall. I'm worried about him.) The problem with the rain is eventually, you get wet. Worse, eventually...you get rained out. I hate rain outs,since I have adjusted my life to the set Cubs schedule. It's hard to switch gears like that...one minute I'm shining up my leather flame Doc Martens for a marathon Mahjong party in the park, the next thing you know I'm running to back home to catch the game...it's not natural. Then again neither are my obsessions for the Cubs and making up stories about Mahjong.
Ah, no matter...As long as they win, I will deal.
-K
Ah, no matter...As long as they win, I will deal.
-K
Friday, May 21, 2004
Well then RAIN WHYDONTCHA!!!
First let me say boo hoo. My beloved Cubbies (did I mention I was a fan?) anyway...LOST.AGAIN. BOO! From the deepest darkest recess of my fanaticism, boo hoo you.
Ok, I admit, we got us one banged up team, and losing to the Cards (by one stinking lousy no good friggin run drat, darn, meh) is not the end of the world, but still... And while I'm on subject... is it too damn much to ask that our injuries be normal ones? Sure, our two star pitchers are sidelined for God knows how long, then whammo- Sammy Sosa...SNEEZES? And Throws out his back? Hello, -tap tap-Is this thing on? Joke over, people...enough already. Since the moment I witnessed first hand the "Bartman ball" bounce away from Alou and into our cursed dark history, I have been assured that THIS WAS THE DAMN YEAR. THIS ONE. No more next years. And why wouldn't we think that? Sosa, *BACK SPASMS, Wood, *SORE ARM (post "TOMMY JOHN" pitchers with sore arms scare me more than rubella.) Prior, **GOD ONLY KNOWS, PICK A BOO-BOO AND RUN WITH IT... and of course...Moises ALOuooooooo -who isn't on the broken down list, but PEES ON HIS HANDS AND TELLS THE WORLD ABOUT IT. Thanks, Mo...just what the south siders need...yet one more poorly spelled cardboard sign to go with "Cork" and such. SO go ahead, guys. RAIN ON MY DAMN PARADE WHYDONTCHA? Sure, I'm not the only fan in the world who's worried. Sure, it's too early in the season to start sweating like Joe Borowski walking to the mound. Sure, The cubs are in second place EVEN with a team that's got more owies than a senior citizen square dance marathon. I fully accept that being a fanatic I am destined to be forever disappointed...fine. But really guys...one more dumbass injury and ...AND...
And nothin'...Go Cubs.
-K
Ok, I admit, we got us one banged up team, and losing to the Cards (by one stinking lousy no good friggin run drat, darn, meh) is not the end of the world, but still... And while I'm on subject... is it too damn much to ask that our injuries be normal ones? Sure, our two star pitchers are sidelined for God knows how long, then whammo- Sammy Sosa...SNEEZES? And Throws out his back? Hello, -tap tap-Is this thing on? Joke over, people...enough already. Since the moment I witnessed first hand the "Bartman ball" bounce away from Alou and into our cursed dark history, I have been assured that THIS WAS THE DAMN YEAR. THIS ONE. No more next years. And why wouldn't we think that? Sosa, *BACK SPASMS, Wood, *SORE ARM (post "TOMMY JOHN" pitchers with sore arms scare me more than rubella.) Prior, **GOD ONLY KNOWS, PICK A BOO-BOO AND RUN WITH IT... and of course...Moises ALOuooooooo -who isn't on the broken down list, but PEES ON HIS HANDS AND TELLS THE WORLD ABOUT IT. Thanks, Mo...just what the south siders need...yet one more poorly spelled cardboard sign to go with "Cork" and such. SO go ahead, guys. RAIN ON MY DAMN PARADE WHYDONTCHA? Sure, I'm not the only fan in the world who's worried. Sure, it's too early in the season to start sweating like Joe Borowski walking to the mound. Sure, The cubs are in second place EVEN with a team that's got more owies than a senior citizen square dance marathon. I fully accept that being a fanatic I am destined to be forever disappointed...fine. But really guys...one more dumbass injury and ...AND...
And nothin'...Go Cubs.
-K
My sweet sickness
Turning the corner, "Nuts on Clark"catches my eye and it is at that moment the feeling hits me again like a ton of ivy clad bricks. My sweet sickness returns like an old friend who's been sick with worry over my absence. As the light turns green, I take my focus off the car-ass-elbow traffic for a moment to look to the end of the block...and just like that, she appears; Wrigley Field, home of MY Chicago Cubs. And once again...I'm home.
Every square inch of the neighborhood is crawling with that which makes Wrigleyville what it is. From the stumbling, bumbling frat boys on a bender to the little old ladies in full-on Cubby Blue, everywhere you look the celebration bumps and grinds to it's own multitude of beats. Noise and laughter, horns and the stench of stale beer from the taverns that dot this landscape, all combine to flavor the imagination. From the front main gate to the left and right bleachers, the top of the flagpole to the gum on the sidewalk, every square inch of Wrigley exudes some intangible that only a true Cub fan can ever appreciate. To her legions of fans, Wrigley is home. From the far reaches of the earth, Cub fans talk of her majestic simplicity, her legend and her beloved ivy.
Before going in I double check my ticket and begin a simple ritual that started accidentally years ago. As a boy, I watched Dave Kingman smash a home run so high and far I never thought it would land. I watched as it left the ballpark and bounce off a building across the street. Since then, I look to that spot and smile. Today is no different, and as the smile crosses my face a drag my fingers along the outfield bricks and slip into the bleacher gate, raising my arms for security guards one and two.
Security guards? Here? Please. What a horrible idea, that someone would dare besmirch the sanctity that is Wrigley Field, nay...of the institution that is baseball, with a threat any greater than public intoxication. All for the best, I suppose. But still...
Now inside, the moment of truth. Right field, or left. Purists will tell you that this is never a question...a true fan chooses this early on in his life and that becomes as important as any ritual here. For some, this is true, but for me another factor comes into play...nostalgia.
A few years a go Jill and I sat left field and watched the Cubs clinch the wildcard. We met some great folks, watched and amazing game and had one of the greatest outings in our history together. Left field has its place etched in my mind, but not tonight...tonight felt right field, and so up the ramp I went, stopping for the important first Beer of the evening. Finally able to take a deep breath, the moment I look forward to the most at each game is only moments away. I turn and continue up the ramp, noting that the old girl could use some paint here and there. And at least one "I" beam has been rusted through for as long as I can remember. The cheering gets louder and I take a good swig off the top foam of my beer and soak in the moment...
Stepping into the dimming sunlight from the dark recesses of any ballpark can be a cathartic experience, but at Wrigley, It's pure freaking magic. As the expanse of the greenest, most perfectly manicured grass on the face of the earth widens in my view, the the noise from the crowd becomes fully appreciated. I step to the side and stare out across the diamond. As the National Anthem plays I give the old girl a once over. Things have changed quite a bit...but not too much. Not yet anyway. Above the crowd on either side of the park hang a pair of huge computerized score boards, replacing the older analog kind. The neighborhood is practically all new, with rooftop clubs on every building across from a good view. The Torco sign, once seemingly part of Wrigley, has been replaced with a rather obnoxious beer billboard referring to some curse or another. And then theres the flag waving from the left field foul pole. "RON SANTO" it says...and a number 10...perhaps one of the best additions ever made to this grand old park.
But none of that matters right now, for at this moment...the Chicago Cubs are taking the field, and we have a game to play. I take a long, deep drink of my beer, set it down and applaud as thay race to thier positions. It's a perfect day turning into a perfect night, and My sweet sickness is going full force...Cub fans..."let's play two!"
-K
Every square inch of the neighborhood is crawling with that which makes Wrigleyville what it is. From the stumbling, bumbling frat boys on a bender to the little old ladies in full-on Cubby Blue, everywhere you look the celebration bumps and grinds to it's own multitude of beats. Noise and laughter, horns and the stench of stale beer from the taverns that dot this landscape, all combine to flavor the imagination. From the front main gate to the left and right bleachers, the top of the flagpole to the gum on the sidewalk, every square inch of Wrigley exudes some intangible that only a true Cub fan can ever appreciate. To her legions of fans, Wrigley is home. From the far reaches of the earth, Cub fans talk of her majestic simplicity, her legend and her beloved ivy.
Before going in I double check my ticket and begin a simple ritual that started accidentally years ago. As a boy, I watched Dave Kingman smash a home run so high and far I never thought it would land. I watched as it left the ballpark and bounce off a building across the street. Since then, I look to that spot and smile. Today is no different, and as the smile crosses my face a drag my fingers along the outfield bricks and slip into the bleacher gate, raising my arms for security guards one and two.
Security guards? Here? Please. What a horrible idea, that someone would dare besmirch the sanctity that is Wrigley Field, nay...of the institution that is baseball, with a threat any greater than public intoxication. All for the best, I suppose. But still...
Now inside, the moment of truth. Right field, or left. Purists will tell you that this is never a question...a true fan chooses this early on in his life and that becomes as important as any ritual here. For some, this is true, but for me another factor comes into play...nostalgia.
A few years a go Jill and I sat left field and watched the Cubs clinch the wildcard. We met some great folks, watched and amazing game and had one of the greatest outings in our history together. Left field has its place etched in my mind, but not tonight...tonight felt right field, and so up the ramp I went, stopping for the important first Beer of the evening. Finally able to take a deep breath, the moment I look forward to the most at each game is only moments away. I turn and continue up the ramp, noting that the old girl could use some paint here and there. And at least one "I" beam has been rusted through for as long as I can remember. The cheering gets louder and I take a good swig off the top foam of my beer and soak in the moment...
Stepping into the dimming sunlight from the dark recesses of any ballpark can be a cathartic experience, but at Wrigley, It's pure freaking magic. As the expanse of the greenest, most perfectly manicured grass on the face of the earth widens in my view, the the noise from the crowd becomes fully appreciated. I step to the side and stare out across the diamond. As the National Anthem plays I give the old girl a once over. Things have changed quite a bit...but not too much. Not yet anyway. Above the crowd on either side of the park hang a pair of huge computerized score boards, replacing the older analog kind. The neighborhood is practically all new, with rooftop clubs on every building across from a good view. The Torco sign, once seemingly part of Wrigley, has been replaced with a rather obnoxious beer billboard referring to some curse or another. And then theres the flag waving from the left field foul pole. "RON SANTO" it says...and a number 10...perhaps one of the best additions ever made to this grand old park.
But none of that matters right now, for at this moment...the Chicago Cubs are taking the field, and we have a game to play. I take a long, deep drink of my beer, set it down and applaud as thay race to thier positions. It's a perfect day turning into a perfect night, and My sweet sickness is going full force...Cub fans..."let's play two!"
-K
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