Playing catch is at once active and meditative, both imitative and instructive. It’s a metaphor for communication between generations, with the added bonus that it doesn’t require much talking.
Baseball was always a part of my relationship with my own Dad. He taught me to throw and catch and hit. My brothers and I inherited his love of the Chicago Cubs, too. I remember riding the L to Wrigley as a kid and sitting in the cheap seats with my glove on, hoping to snag a foul ball.
Dad taught us about Ernie Banks and Billy Williams, and about why the New York Mets were awful. (Dad was 12 years old during the black season of 1969; if you know, you know.) On summer afternoons we would watch Ryne Sandberg and Shawon Dunston turn double plays on our little black and white TV and listen to Harry Carrey sing the seventh inning stretch.
Mostly, the Cubs lost. But hey, there was always next year.
We listened on the radio as the Cubs lost the 1989 National League Championship to the San Francisco Giants. (I still bristled at the mention of Will Clarke’s name.) When an earthquake interrupted the World Series that year, we agreed that God himself must be unhappy about the Cubs’ loss. That belief was confirmed when the Giants were swept by the Oakland A’s.
The last game my Dad and I saw together at Wrigley was on Labor Day in 2003. We sat in the bleachers through a long rain delay and then watched the Cubs thump our biggest rivals, the then-first-place St. Louis Cardinals. Mark Prior threw 8 shutout innings and got the win. The Cubs finished the rest of September strong, clinching the division on the final day of the season. The Cardinals finished in 3rd. Two days later, I moved to the UK.
I didn't see the Cubs blow their 3-1 lead over the Marlins in the NLCS that year. I didn’t see the infamous Bartman Game when the dream of the Cubs first pennant since 1946 began to unravel. But I watched the boxscores and felt the pain all the same, even across the Atlantic. Dad recorded all the games for me. I still have the VHS tapes somewhere but I’ve never had the heart to watch them. There was always next year.
The Cubs were good again in 2007 and 2008, but they were swept out of the playoffs in the first round both years. Humiliation. The Cubs wandered back into the wilderness of futility.
Then came 2015. And a young Cubs team was suddenly good. Really good. My son, as it happens, was born that season. My two brothers both welcomed their first sons, too. It was a year of fathers and sons. I’m not claiming causality, but it was an auspicious year.
And unlike 2007 and 2008, they didn’t fall flat in the playoffs. They made some serious noise, knocking out the Pirates in a spectacular one-game playoff and offing the rival Cardinals in the division series. I remember talking to Dad about how hard it was as a fan to get one’s hopes up only to have them dashed again and again. It was tempting to remain cynical and aloof during the good times in order to soften the bitterness of disappointment that was likely to follow. I decided I’d risk the heartbreak if it meant I could enjoy the team I love. I was all in.
Besides, what if they actually…win?
The Cubs lost. The Mets beat us soundly in the NLCS but even that couldn’t quell the feeling that the Cubs were suddenly a team no one wanted to face. We weren’t lovable losers anymore, we were the class act of the National League. 2015 was a turning point. That year, we actually believed that next year might be different.
And it had to be. Because for Dad, we had a pretty good idea that it would be his last year.