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NO GOAT

no-goat-500by John Jonelis

This thing still replays in my mind. And the news is everywhere!

“The last real American sports story—the story of the team that couldn’t and seemingly never would—is gone for good… [Rick Morrissey – Sun Times] Now I watch in shocked delight as the Cub’s sleeping bats come alive! A leadoff home run…

“…ending more than a century of flops, futility and frustration.”   [Ronald Blum – Associated Press] …now more runs—a lot more runs, but way too many innings left to go…

The Cubs won their last title way back in 1908 “At the time, Theodore Roosevelt was president, New Mexico, Arizona, Alaska and Hawaii were not yet states, and the first Ford Model T car was two weeks old.”  [Ronald Blum – Associated Press] …I hear our first baseman, Rizzo, caught in the dugout on an open mike, saying, “I can’t control myself. I’m an emotional wreck.”

“The longest championship drought for any continuously operating pro team in North America – nay, the world…we never truly thought this would happen. We joked about not seeing the Cubs win it all in our lifetimes. We said that with grins when we were young. We reached middle age, and we said it with blank faces. We grew old, and it curled off our lips like, yes, a curse.” [Rick Telander – Northwest Herald]

Yup, that about sums it up for me. A hundred and eight years! Why should anything change today vs. the Cleveland Indians? Somehow the Cubs will find a way to lose this thing.

Baseball from MS Word T2

The Replay

Again, the events of the game run through my mind. “No, Maddon, no!”   Why yank Hendricks when he’s on a roll? He can pitch himself out of trouble.  At least let him finish the inning. After that, you’ve got nearly enough pitchers to use one for each out. Even Jake can take a batter or two. But the manager doesn’t hear me. In goes Lester. The guy’s got the numbers but this ain’t his night.

Out comes Chapman, the one-inning wonder-closer, who hurls the ball at 105 mph, now pressed into way too many innings for way too many games.  Before long, he’s pouring sweat, his face in anguish. “Take him out! Can’t you tell he’s out of gas?” He hurls the next pitch and the Cubs blow the final three-run lead with two outs in the eighth. When he reaches the dugout, he weeps. And the same cynical, “Maybe next year,” settles in my mind.

Now the 10th inning. The rain delay. The Indians intentionally walk Rizzo. The batter shortens his swing. “In a situation where some of his teammates would have swung for the outer reaches…Zobrist settled for making contact.” [William Graves – Associated Press] The rally! The win! Ben immediately points skyward, giving God the glory, but they award him the MVP of the World Series.

Eight to Seven—every run counts! The game of a lifetime! “…something that no one alive has ever seen happen before.” [Rick Telander – Northwest Herald] I watch the after-game mayhem, the unbounded joy, as if in a trance. The team carries the retiring catcher, Ross, off the field! I’m numb—stunned—and it hasn’t all sunk in.

Now the parade! Where is Sianis’ goat?

ron_santo_autograph

Heros

So I grow up with both the Cubs and Sox, collecting their trading cards, arguing over which team is best. But Ron Santo and Ernie Banks are my heros. Those guys are the top of the heap. I’m eight years old when Santo visits my Cub Scout troop and I shake his hand in awe.

But those two guys never make it to the post season during their careers. Now they’re both dead and in the Hall of Fame. Maybe this game is played out by Dexter, Rizzo, Bryant, Schwarber, Russell, Zobrist, Baez, Heyward, Contreras, Ross, Montero… But for me, this win is all about those two heros from my childhood.

ernie_banks_autograph

Quick Comparisons – Chicago Teams

  • The Bears won nine championships: 1921 as the Chicago Staleys, and then in 1932, 1933, 1940, 1941, 1943, 1946, and 1963. They didn’t win for another 22 years—the glorious 1985 Superbowl. That was 31 years ago, but who can forget?
  • The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup six times: 1934, 1938 and 1961, then after a 49-year dry run, they triumphed spectacularly in three recent contests—2010, 2013, 2015. If one were to chart their history like a stock or futures contract, a momemtum trader might suggest the semiannual pattern indicates they’re due again this year. On the other hand, a technical trader may see a triple top, similar to a security that’s reached its ultimate peak. But I’m hoping for another win this year.
  • The Bulls won six NBA championships but not until the 1990’s when Michael Jordan woke them from their slumber. With him they pulled it off in 1991, ’92 and ’93. Then Jordan retired, tried baseball for a couple years, and the team went back to sleep. When he returned, they won in 1996, ’97 and ‘98. Two three-peats in eight years. Since then they’ve slept soundly for a good 18 years.
  • The White Sox won the World Series three times. Eleven years ago, in 2005, they thrilled Chicago, sweeping the series in four straight games—their first championship since 1917 and 1906, bringing back baseball honor to Chicago after an 88-year dry spell.
  • The Cubs also won the World Series three times—back-to-back in 1907 and 1908, but not again till this year. 108 years!

Yet amazingly, the Cubs enjoy an enormous national fan base. On this, the seventh game of the World Series, enough Cub fans show up in Cleveland to make it seem like a home game. StubHub sells seats behind the dugout for $10K each. Yes, this is the Cubs—one of Chicago’s oldest startups.

 

Image Credits:

“No Goat” by John Jonelis, MS Office

Baseball Cards from Baseball Almanac

 

Chicago Venture Magazine is a publication of Nathaniel Press www.ChicagoVentureMagazine.com

Comments and re-posts in full or in part are welcomed and encouraged if accompanied by attribution and a web link. This is not investment advice. We do not guarantee accuracy. It’s not our fault if you lose money.

.Copyright © 2016 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

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HAWKS

Hawk Logo_JAJ0561by Mark T. Wayne

“Quit talking business!  This is important!”  A shocking pronouncement coming from one’s employer!  I go mum.  We sit behind thick glass, watching the Chicago Blackhawks clobber the Anaheim Ducks in the final game of the series.  The Hawks will win this game and go on to the coveted Stanley Cup.  That is correct, sir—an opportunity for a third championship in just a few years!

I comply with Jonelis’ rude order.  I do it because I sympathize with his lack of discipline in this arena of violent chaos.  And of course, like most men, I am quite prepared to revive my boyhood when the opportunity arises.  Certainly, there are subjects other than business worthy of utterance.

Mark T Wayne

Lonagan is at my right, constantly jostling, constantly booming, “Did ya see dat?” shouts the execrable fellow.  “He jammed da butt o’ his stick right into dat poor sap’s kisser.”  Permit me to note that Lonagan is able to perform a multitude of tasks simultaneously:

  • He shouts expert opinions about every detail of this free-for-all.
  • He gnaws great hunks from greasy bratwurst.
  • He swills beer from a paper cup with great skill.

I have never before witnessed a hockey game.  I attempt to test its worth with my closest scrutiny, but find it difficult to comprehend my editor’s rationale—dragging me out here to write about six bearded hooligans with faulty dental work beating up six over-muscled goons.  How can I stay abreast of the Chicago private equity action?  Nothing of impact happens in California.  Most of their financiers chase after the same-old, same-old mobile apps.  But I agreed not to talk business.

John thru the glass_JAJ05618B

Against the glass

Jonelis and Lonagan both jump to their feet and beer sloshes onto my fine white flannel suit.  “Goal!” they scream in rough unison, and the stadium erupts in opposing voices of victory and outrage.  Jonelis pounds my shoulder.  “Did you see that?  Did you?  A rebound—that’s the way to score a goal—always crowd the net!”  I am perplexed.  How can he possibly assume that I did not witness the occurrence?  Does the man think I am blind?  We are right here in the front row of the roaring crowd, watching this madness with an entirely unobstructed view!  A gentleman named Toews, who I am told, for some unknown reason, pronounces his name Taves, just flung a small black object into the goal by artful use of a stick.  I saw the act, as did every other bloodthirsty spectator in this crowded coliseum.

Meanwhile, Lonagan gesticulates broadly with both arms, then breaks into impassioned laughter that squeezes out a few tears.  He reaches across me and punches Jonelis square on the shoulder.  “Dis is da best!  First class airfare.  First class box seats!  I kin hardly believe I’m here!  What made ya ask me?”

Jonelis seems momentarily at a loss for words.  He grins sheepishly, then admits in a somewhat lower tone, “You know how to throw a party—I don’t.”  He clears his throat.  “After we win this game, I want to celebrate.  I want to do it right.”

I catch a glint in Lonagan’s eye.  “You want I should pour it on industrial strength?”

A wan smile.  “That’s the general idea.”

“Yer on!”  Lonagan grins like a slathering bulldog.  “What about old whisker-puss here?”

“He’s covering the game.”  Then Jonelis addresses me.  “Get the article out tonight, will you?”

I care not about a drunken felon denigrating the quality of my mustaches, but the second insult inflicts its sting.  My host reduces my status from guest to employee.  Such is the level of respect shown an accomplished novelist.  A writer is without honor, sir!  (I secretly resolve to delay the entire project for several days.  I, too, enjoy the Lonagan fellow’s raucous celebrations.)

Two huge bodies in bulky uniforms slam into the glass inches from my nose with an impact that rattles the structure of the enclosure.

I sit up and take notice.

Pinned, the Hawk reaches under an inadequate face guard and grabs the nose of the angry Duck, who bars his stick against the Hawk’s hairy throat.

A whistle!

With a bleeding nose, the Duck skates to the penalty box.

In the ensuing power play, I note amazingly deceptive and expert stick handling.  Fascinating!  Other members of the team, entirely out of the action of play, perform acts of sadistic menace upon each other’s persons.  These go unnoticed by the officials, otherwise engaged.  As an organ plays magnificent chants, I wonder how thugs learn to skate with such skill.

Toews scores another goal and I am wearing flecks of Lonagan’s mustard.  Only a few minutes have transpired since the splattering of beer—inadequate time to allow my suit to dry.

I stand and cheer!  “Hooray!”

This represents an important lesson!  Yes sir!  How is it that I have never before attended such an event as this?  And I speculate on the odds of bribing a season ticket from some luminary with the only real weapon I own—the promise to not write about him.

Read KIDNAPPED

Chicago Venture Magazine is a publication of Nathaniel Press www.ChicagoVentureMagazine.com Comments and re-posts in full or in part are welcomed and encouraged if accompanied by attribution and a web link. This is not investment advice. We do not guarantee accuracy. It’s not our fault if you lose money.

.Copyright © 2015 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

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