Baseball season is almost upon us, you guys! Let's go, 2020!!

I grew up in Chicago, that toddling town just on the western shore of Lake Michigan (you may have heard of it). In this stomping ground of all kinds of trade and culture, two baseballing squadrons emerged from the dust after multiple decades of barnstorming and grandstanding, victorious. The Major League of Baseball in the United States of America (god dammit) has never quite understood the gift bestowed upon them by the baseball gods. Sure, New York has two squads. Sure, L.A. has some kind of stretched-out facsimile of this, but that's a bastardization at best. CubsSox is forever. Batman v. Superman, Coke v. Pepsi, Sprite v. 7UP, Dr. Pepper v. Mr. Pibb, and... I guess I want a soda.

I think that paragraph may have been enough to prime you for the intensity of baseball passion within the city of Chicago. It surely won't be enough to accurately represent how the team colors represent something more than statistical strengths or athletic achievements. You walk down the street and you see someone clad in black with white fringe, you know you have a south sider. A REAL south sider. Nobody is going to go head to toe as a Chicago White Sox fan unless they ARE a Chicago White Sox fan.

I grew up a Cubs fan. Le sigh. What an interesting first 26 years of life (pre-championship), and what a crappy downslide in sports and entertainment quality ever since they beat that Cleveland team-that-needs-a-better-name (a victory that was insanely lucky anyway, but that's neither here nor there). It's safe to say that I'm tired of the Cubs organization. The players are good guys, from what I can tell. Addison Russell was always a shifty little weirdo anyway, I never could figure out what his deal was (until his victims bravely came forward), and I was glad when Joe [Maddon] drove [Aroldis] Chapman into the ground throughout that whole postseason, because he deserved to play hurt. Then there was the Daniel Murphy thing, with his insensitivity to the LGBTQ+ community. And after that, it's tough for me to come up with other scandals off the top of my head.

The Cubs have always been the kind of organization that stresses the family mentality. "Come and join us in our Friendly Confines, where we'll ply you with skunky beer that you would only ever drink at the ballpark because it brings back memories of the last time you drank skunky beer at the ballpark!" I love, love, LOVE that approach. It worked like a charm for me and my family. My grandfather was very unwell in the summer of '99, but he had enough energy to come down to the city and catch a ballgame with us at Wrigley. We got him a lovely aisle seat with the beer vendor less than 15 feet away; heaven. There's nowhere else in the world I would rather remember being. Ever. That's it, man.

To be 9 years old and to wake up super early because you're too excited to sleep, only to find that your grandpa is already up too (because that's just the grandpa thing to do), and then to get out your baseball card collection and pore over them like precious stones, while he has the Sunday Chicago Tribune open to the sports section and he tells you about Oil Can Boyd being one of his favorite players when you show him how much you like the name, and you see the twinkle in his eye from all the way behind his thick grandpa glasses... those are the moments that shape entire lifetimes.

I lost my grandpa that November, the same day Walter Payton succumbed to cancer (All Saints Day, 1999). It still tears at me in a way that nothing else ever has. Nothing has even come close, frankly.

But now it's 2020. The thing that completely drives me up a wall about the Cubs RIGHT NOW is that I STILL WANT TO BE A CUBS FAN. I STILL WANT TO LIKE THIS ORGANIZATION. I WANT TO LIKE WHAT IT REPRESENTS. But I can't. I just can't. Not when the owner is a prominent giver to the Trump 2020 reelection campaign. I just vomited in my mouth a little when I typed that.

And it really is as simple as that. I may be an ignorant wypipo in some ways, but I'm working on it. I really am.

So I'm going to set a couple simple goals for myself moving forward:

•I will no longer wear any Cubs-related merchandise or use any Cubs-related paraphernalia until they change ownership.
•I will be looking to purchase a White Sox cap at a local establishment, where I may peruse their wares before making an informed choice (and perhaps also get a jersey if they upsell me like crazy).

Now, I know what you're saying: "gee whiz, well isn't that just a knee-jerk reaction, buying a White Sox cap to protest the Cubs?" And to be honest with you, from the outsider's perspective, it would definitely appear that way. But here's the thing, mac. I've been a working stiff for damn near a decade at this point, and I say to hell with all the disingenuous bullhonky going on with all the various ivory tower residents these days. They know damn well that they're going against history and the very evolution of our species, but they don't give a single rat's ass. None of the oligarchs represent that stagnant attitude more accurately than Joe Ricketts, the man who sucked the soul out of Wrigleyville.

LET'S GO WHITE SOX!

Credit to Nancy Stone (photographer) and Chicago Tribune for the cover image
Credit to Chris Sweda (photographer) and Chicago Tribune for the body text image