Writing is like exercise. The more you do it, the easier it gets. It's a habit, and like all habits (good ones, anyways) if you get off your regular schedule, it gets tougher and tougher to start up again. I'd love to say that I had just been too busy to post over the last couple of weeks, but that isn't true. The truth is, I have been suffering from a big, nasty, scary case of writer's block.
I let it go the first week, thinking something would come to me. Nothing did. When week 2 came around and I was still worried about a decent topic I would be willing to self-immolate over, I still had nothing. All week long I have been sweating it because I still had nothing, and the WORST thing I could do is not have a post this week.
Stay in the habit, Kelly.
Pretty much everything I do has to be the hard way, though. So the more I searched for a good topic, the worse my block got. I was really stretching for something. Every day this week I have spent at least 20 minutes typing and erasing drafts. The auto-save feature captured some of them for me, and they are...Bad. Really bad. Like "stick a needle in my eye" bad. And you all know that I am probably the only person you are acquainted with who is qualified to make that statement with truth and accuracy.
Suddenly I was thinking about self-immolation and sticking needles into eyes, and other painful experiences, and I was inspired! Bolt-of-lightning-straight-from-heaven inspired.
I haven't explained my fascination with the Chicago Cubs.
(I'll pause for laughter...I'm waiting....)
I am not one of these Kris Bryant adoring, Kyle Schwarber worshiping Johnny-Come-Latelys. I am a long term, emotionally train wrecked Die Hard of the first order. I have paid my dues.
Check my Facebook. Ask my old friends. I have been a Cubs fan all my life.
When I was still in elementary school, my parents signed us up for this incredible invention called "cable TV". It had a bazillion channels, and the best part was, it came with a remote control so my days of getting up to change the station between NFL games on Sunday was over. One of the networks was called MTV, which stood for Music TV and they showed nothing but music videos. Weird, I know. Mom wisely put a block on that one. One of them had only sports programs 24 hours a day and it was called the Celestial Kingd...er...ESPN. But of all those channels, the one that got tuned into the most was WGN in Chicago.
When we were home from school during the summer, the first thing that came on in the morning was the Bozo the Clown show on WGN. Despite what my younger readers may think, this was NOT a predecessor to CNN coverage of politics. This was back in the day when clowns were neither politicians, nor scary.
I know it is tough to believe, but Bozo the Clown was HILARIOUS. He had his buddy Cookie the Clown and he hit him in the face with pies, and told awesome terrible jokes, drove tiny cars.. it was great. The best part was at the end of every show when they played Bozo's "Grand. Prize. Game." (You had to pause between each word when you said it to let the awesomeness sink in).
The gist of it was they would pick one kid from the studio audience to come down and toss pingpong balls into buckets that got progressively farther away. The further the bucket, the better the prize. It escalated from a coupon for free ice cream all the way up to ....wait for it....A BICYCLE!!!! A 10 speed bike, no less.
There was none of this, "every kid is a winner" BS either. If the klutzy kid they called down missed the first bucket, he went home with a case of mortified embarrassment and not one damn thing else.
As kids, we would get irritated with the contestants that couldn't get to at least the third bucket. What kind of dweeb couldnt drop a pingpong ball three feet away? We would take a golf ball and my mom's mop bucket out to the driveway and practice in the hopes that one day, we might happen to be in the neighborhood of Chicago and get a shot at Bozo's Grand. Prize. Game.
Now none of us kids had the faintest idea of just how far away Chicago was. We never considered the fact we had as much chance of going to the moon as we did the Bozo show. But if it happened you could be sure none of the Kelly kids would shame their heritage with naught but a two bucket win.
Bicycle or bust, baby.
But even if we had known that we would never be in Chicago, there was still hope! You see, before the start of every Grand. Prize. Game. Cookie the clown would go over to a big drum full of names and pull out the name of a kid watching somewhere in the U.S. on TV. That kid won whatever the kid playing the game won. Every day, we kids would watch; hoping, praying, that Cookie the clown would pull our names. It seems hilarious now, but we were all sure our chances were getting better and better every time someone else's name came out of the drum.
I swear to you by all that is holy, not one time, not for one single second did it occur to me that none of us had bothered to send our names in to WGN to get put in the drum. I mean, hell. Bozo knew we were watching, right? Surely he had dropped us into the drum as a reward for our loyal viewership.
I miss being a kid. Honestly. ALMOST as much as I miss the Bozo show.
Anyway, once Bozo got done handing out shaving cream pies to the face and bicycles to the kids, we had an hour or two to kill before Harry Caray and Steve Stone came on from Wrigley field to broadcast the beloved Cubbies.
To be fair, TBS in Atlanta broadcast the Braves every day, too. But they were owned by Ted Turner and as my Dad accurately told us, "Ted Turner is a jerk."
Even BYU hero and league MVP Dale Murphy was not enough to swing us to the Braves.
Cubs or nothing. Always was, always will be.
We would watch until the 7th inning stretch, when Harry led us in a rousing, off key, out of tune rendition of "take me out to the ballgame" where we would "root, root, root for the cuuuubbbbies"
On the frequent occasions we were behind,at the finish of the song, we would all shout in unison with Harry for the team to "go get some runs!"
It was then my job to call my Dad at work, (his office was less than a mile from our house) and tell him it was time to come home for lunch. He would come watch the last 2 innings with us before going back to work. I spent nearly every summer day watching the Cubs, win or lose, rain or shine with my brothers, sisters, my Mom and Dad and good old Harry who was too drunk to drive, but not to broadcast.
It might be, it could be, it is! Holy Cow! and Cubs win, Cubs win, Cubs win!
Will Ferrell is funny, but he'll never do it justice.
Wrigley and it's bleachers are sacred ground. And no matter what Nena says, there's a reason my youngest is named Ivy.
Ryne Sandburg, Mark Grace (traitor!!!), Shawn Dunston, Jody Davis, Rick Sutcliff, Greg Maddox, Keith Moreland, and my personal favorite Andre the Hawk Dawson. We watched all of em. We even put up with long past-their-prime-retreads like Ron Cey and Goose Gossage.
You all remember Bill Buckner? I remember when he was a Cub. And 2 full years before he busted Boston, I watched Leon Durham out Buckner Bill Buckner. Game 5, up by one, grounder goes right through the old Five Hole, and it was so long, 1984 World Series. Tony Gwyn, Gary Templeton, Alan Wiggins...you and the Padres still suck.
I remember walking home from school as a freshman, listening to the Cubs play the Giants in the 1989 NLCS. Will Clark turns into Clark freaking Kent, and once again, we were sucking eggs. Giants...you suck, too.
I still can't talk about Steroid Sosa and that whole crummy era. I mean we had a juiced up slugger, Mark Prior AND Kerry Wood and still can't win. How come? Steve Bleeping Bartman, that's why. Never forget, never forgive. Jerk.
71 years since our last World Series. Nearly one and a quarter centuries since our last title. You'll pardon me if I show something of a cynical streak when it comes to my team. All that is left of my soul is scar tissue.
My brother in law (who is an ok dude, even if he is a Damn Dodger fan) says that every Cub fan has 5 little words they must memorize and recite. Say it 5 times with a different emphasis on each word, and it has five slightly different meanings. It's a Cubbies Catechism, if you will.
THEY will break your heart.
They WILL break your heart.
They will BREAK your heart.
They will break YOUR heart.
They will break your HEART!!!
As for me, the Cubs are why I believe in a diety. There is a God. He does care about sports. And He HATES the Chicago Cubs. There is no other explanation.
On the day that each of my sons were born, I waited until their mother fell asleep. I picked them up, snuggled them to my shoulder, and whispered an apology. "I'm sorry, my son", I said. "I have brought you in to this world and intend to turn you into a Cubs fan. This means that you will likely never see them win anything in your whole lifetime, and no child should come into this world with that kind of bad Juju hanging over them. But bear with me, my boy. Because if they ever overcome the ghost of Leon Durham, Will Clark, the goat, the dirt birds in St. Louis, Bleeping Bartman and Heaven everlasting itself; and we should win... we will be able to say we were there from the get go."
So should we reach the promised land this year, then Glory, Hallelujah! The Cubs finally got their names pulled by Cookie the clown, and are playing the Grand. Prize. Game. and I am playing along at home.
Don't be that dweeb who only gets to the second bucket, Chicago. Bicycle or bust, baby! At least we have a better chance than I ever did of getting on the Bozo show.
But should you blow it, just know that I will still be watching next year and wondering when you are going to start slinging pies.
Hey! Holy Cow! Looks like I'm over my writer's block! One more reason to say, Go, Cubs, go!
I have similar sentiments, but towards the Giants. We weren't rich like you, though, and I had to rely on KNBR AM radio while living in Sacramento as a child ages 6-12. I can't tell you how many times I fell asleep listening to the post-game report. And then I delivered the Sacramento Bee but would open the paper up and check the box score every day before my route started. I still check box scores every day.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate good, educated baseball fans everywhere. It's a great game and taught me some of my best lessons as I played it into high school.