As a child in suburban Ohio, I loved baseball. I had two favorite teams for very different reasons. I loved the Cleveland Indians because I had been going to games since I was a toddler (it was easy to go to these games when about 72,000 of the 78,000 seats were empty) and I loved the Chicago Cubs because they were on TV during the daytime over summer and on days I stayed home from school.
Many of my baseball-loving friends were the same way; WGN managed to be on the Cleveland cable package and that was all it took. The Cubs were the only National League team any of us really knew about beyond the Atlanta Braves or the expansion teams because they had weird new uniforms. Up until about ten years ago I could have still named plenty of Cubs from the completely pointless early-to-mid ’90s teams. Guys beyond just Sandberg and Grace. Guys like…I don’t know, Glenallen Hill or Shawon Dunston.
Of course, during this time, while I liked the Cubs, I didn’t care about their success. That was easy because it was a foregone conclusion that they wouldn’t have any. On the other hand, the Indians turned things around during the 1994 season before the strike and picked up where they left off in ’95. The Cleveland Indians were an impossibly hot ticket.
It’s hard to imagine it now when we see cold early-April games routinely pulling in 12,000 fans, but the Indians sold out every April game for about eight straight seasons. If your friend had tickets to an Indians game, that friend was cool. The Cleveland Indians were it.
Meanwhile, the Cubs kept losing.
When the Indians lost the 1997 World Series in the 11th inning I cried on the couch in my dad’s arms. I don’t know if he was crying, but I sure was. I was eleven and life wasn’t fair. I had been allowed to stay up late to watch west coast games over summer, I had been to at least a dozen home games on my grandparents’ twenty-game ticket package, and I owned multiple Central Division champs shirts. I was a fan. It hurt.
Meanwhile, the Cubs kept losing.
The Indians stayed relevant, winning the Central a few more times but never really competing. They slipped up quite a bit and then made a run in 2007. That loss to the Red Sox hurt again. It wasn’t as painful as 1997 because I had stopped playing baseball and thought I was growing up.
Meanwhile, the Cubs kept losing.
Except even when they won, they lost. They lost in the playoffs in ’03, ’07 and ’08 and I barely noticed.
Then, in 2010, I moved to Chicago. I felt the rush of the first time I saw Wrigley Field. I went to a Cubs game in September of that year for about $10 because they were eliminated from contention and I got to experience the joy of obstructed views and trough urinals. I heard comedy-types at Second City or iO Chicago talk about their hatred for Cubs fans and I laughed, not really getting it. I heard jokes about Wrigleyville and how it was a cesspool, but I didn’t follow. I was just excited to walk around and drag my fingers along the brick wall in center field and think “This is where Babe Ruth’s maybe-not-actually called shot landed.”
I would usually follow that with “And nothing interesting has happened here since.”
Meanwhile, the Indians were losing. From ’09 through ’12 they averaged being 22 games out of first place in the division. But they were my team, so anytime they played in Chicago, I was there.
In late summer 2011 I moved to Wrigleyville.
This is where the story turns.
It’s not the Cubs’ fault that the round-C hat is a symbol of date rape in my mind. It’s not their fault that a man in a Cubs hat had sex with a girl in the alley next to my apartment at 4:00 p.m. on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s not the Cubs’ fault that I had to tiptoe around vomit on Saturday or Sunday morning on my way to the train. It’s also not their fault that “There’s a Cubs game today” meant to prepare for a long, slow commute home from work and pushing through crowds when all I wanted to do was go home and eat some Pringles.
But, unfortunately, the Cubs are associated with those things in my mind.
Wrigleyville isn’t as bad as it can be painted. I lived there for multiple years despite not enjoying alcohol, so it couldn’t have been that bad (low rent in my apartment helped). Every type of food was within walking distance, iO was there, and public transit was around every corner. But those moments when Wrigleyville reared its ugly head were absolutely deserving of the filthy reputation that it has earned.
While the Cubs were mostly irrelevant during my time in Chicago, the Blackhawks won a lot. Like, a lot. They won at least two titles in the four years I lived there. Wrigleyville was the scene of the celebration each time. It was nutty.
In 2015 I moved back to Cleveland. My time away hardened my belief that Cleveland is the city that I identify with. For better or worse, it’s home. Chicago unquestionably has a special place in my heart: It’s where I met my wife, performed in dozens of shows, met some wonderful friends, and learned that mac and cheese pizza from Dimo’s (formerly Ian’s) is devastatingly delicious.
However, I don’t have the same affinity for Chicago teams upon leaving as I did for Cleveland teams upon leaving. It’s not the same. Chicago has had enough sports success that the Cubs could go on losing forever and it wouldn’t really matter. If they win, all four major sports teams will have a title in the past twenty years. That’s absurd. They don’t need this win. Those two who were having sex outside my apartment don’t deserve this win.
I would love for the Indians to win, but I would mostly love it for my family members who don’t love basketball like I do. I want the Indians to win.
Whatever happens will end in a delirious fan base. Chaos will reign after the final out of the deciding game.
Here’s to hoping it really is the year of Cleveland.
