How the Cubs taught us all to believe
At around 5 p.m. on a June 24th I arrived in Chicago. Missing one of my checked bags with nearly all of my clothing, I took a cab through rush hour traffic up to Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood. After I set down my bags, I went to the nearest place where I could drink a beer and eat a vegetarian sandwich — The Pumping Company on Broadway. The bar was nearly empty and I sat at a table by myself, eating my sandwich and thinking about my new life. Occasionally I glanced at a nearby TV. The Cubs were playing.
Maybe I will be a Cubs fan.
Jake Arrieta led the Cubs to beat the Cincinnati 7–3 that night, my first as a Chicago resident.
I moved to The Windy City a pretty broken person. My first six months back in the U.S. after nearly three and half years with the Peace Corps in West and Southern Africa were rocky and I had no idea who I was after that experience. I took a job in Chicago on the hunch that I was more Chicago than Washington, D.C. I had little money in the bank and knew of just two people in this city. My dream urban life with houseplants and yoga classes and hole-in-the-wall restaurants seemed forever away. But, I needed to hit restart on my new American life and Chicago was going to help me do that.
Four months later, the Chicago Cubs announced the hiring of manager Joe Maddon. American’s loveable losers were also restarting.
My father calls me his World Series baby. I was born the same night that Kurt Bevacqua hit a three-run home run to top his Padres over the Detroit Tigers in Game 2 of the 1984 World Series. I am less of a baseball enthusiast as my father would have preferred — needing him to show me to second base the first day of little league practice and then losing his beloved childhood glove after a high school softball game (for which, my father will never let me forget).
During my short stint in Washington, D.C., I had gone to four Nationals games and they had won every game. Weeks before I moved to Chicago, I met my family in Minneapolis for a Twins game, for which they won (about as miraculous as the Cubs winning).
“The Cubs need you, Heather,” my father said. “You can be their good luck charm.”
My first summer in Chicago I did go to a Cubs game, with a friend who happened to get us box seats through the firm where she was interning that summer. Did you know Wrigley has a dessert cart that visits all boxes and gives you whatever you want? It’s amazing.
I went again the following summer, with my new boyfriend who is a die-hard Cardinals fan and adamant that Wrigley is the worst place on earth. Then again this year, skipping out of work at 1 p.m. with some workers and singing “Go Cubs Go” while not-so-cheap bear slipped out of our cups.
I am a casual Cubs fan at best, but I am in love with Chicago. It’s in my blood now. This city is home to me the way places like Brookings and Ha Matela are home.
Two years later and I am a better person because I came to Chicago. I set up a life, made some great friends, found a great person to share my life with, building my career and letting this city show me pieces of myself I never thought possible.
It’s hard to describe Chicago the last two weeks. You can’t walk a block without seeing someone in a Cubs shirt or a Chicago icon decorated for the occasion. I’ve heard “Go Cubs Go” about 100 times since the start of the World Series, and strangers find reason to talk to each other on the street or in the train (“You’ve got nerves? Yeah, me too.) A unified joy is floating throughout the city that has made each day feel like Christmas Eve.
I went to Wrigley last Friday, before the first Chicago game of the series, and there were literally parties in the streets. Sure, there were people who came just for the fun, but there was also people who had something in their eyes that indicated they had waited a long time for this. Strangers nudged me, saying, “Isn’t this something?” In the midst of a downright nasty election and the general pain of the world, right here in Chicago, for few hours, there was pure happiness.
On most days Chicago is two different cities. Walking around Wrigley, there was a distinct notice of economic disparity around the stadium compared to three or four blocks away, all in Cubs gear. The morning after the Cubs won the pennant, beneath the multiple Cubs headlines in the paper was the daily shooting report: Four killed, 11 wounded in citywide shootings. Chicago, even when celebrating, is still a city full of pain.
What I’ve learned about sports, though, is that they are often a great metaphor for life. One win matched up against all of those losses is still a win and enough to believe in hope. And that’s what this city and this country need, more hope. It’s what I needed when I moved here more than two years ago. It’s what I need right now.
It doesn’t matter if you whether or not you are a Cubs for, or if they lose tonight or win (and I do hope they win), the city of Chicago and the Cubs in October taught us to hope, in sports and in life. They taught us that after 73 years of seeing someone else win to never give up that one day your time will come. One day, if we can keep hoping throughout the defeat, we will be on the podium. If the Cubs can, then so can we.
