Keep quiet. Switch to whisper mode. Put your hand over your mouth and only use short bursts of jumbled words when discussing … The Cubs. Shhhhh!
Case your surroundings before speaking that four-letter word aloud. You don’t want anyone assuming you’re mired in blind faith. The Cubs need an overhaul; that’s apparent. New GM, new manager, new players. Save Starlin Castro, maybe two or three others, tops. Tops.
It’s hard to turn their way. You feel ashamed. It’s a “they’re not with me” situation. An ugly stepchild. A daft friend. Loyalty can be excruciating. Loyalty can be a bitch.
And let’s face it, without the Bulls wonderfully distracting you during the early summer, you’d be pulling your hair out by now. Worse yet, you’d be looking forward to autumn, with the belief that there most certainly will be an NFL season.
IT’S GOTTEN SO BAD WITH THE CUBS — Shhhhh! — sorry, that you don’t even do anything but shrug your shoulders when someone asks you, “What’s up with the Cubs?” It’s like someone asking you, “What’s up with nuclear fusion?” I don’t know.
Perhaps something can be done. If you’re ready, willing and able, we can form a different alliance other than the losers alliance we have going for us now. We can send a message. What do we do? Only drink five beers at Wrigley instead of the requisite 7-10?
No, instead we steer clear of the Friendly Confines altogether. Yes, even now that it’s warm and it’s party season. We cut them at the jugular.
WHAT? ARE YOU INSANE?
Shhhhh! Keep your voice down. Step into the shadows. This is the ultimate coup. We pretend we’ve given up until they adhere to our demands. Then we converge.
We can’t go on like this, like the way things are now, always hiding our true feelings. Lurking in the darkness, while those who catch a glimpse only snicker and shake their heads in disgust. They don’t even feel sorry for us. We’re idiots in their eyes, deaf, dumb and blind. We need to take a stand.
Let’s do this. Let’s allow the crickets to be heard over the radio airwaves during games. Let’s let the seagulls starve to death.
I’ll need one exemption: I promised my twin 8-year-old daughters they’d take their first trip to a Cubs game this summer. And there’s also those skybox tickets my wife gets through work every season. And then there’s a few games sprinkled in with friends and family later in the summer. And …
Shhhhhhh! Whisper mode!
CONTACT: bspencer@oakpark.com
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