Dear Cardinals Fan

I jumped off the Clark bus at 10:45 the other night just outside Wrigley. I still had two stops to go, but I wanted soak up some memories on this night. The last night of baseball for the year...

You'll have to forgive me, but this whole thing feels like Deja Vu. A year ago to the day I flew into Chicago for a relaxing homecoming (my first visit back since I moved to San Francisco), a G Love concert at the Vic, a Bears game, a Halloween party. The dear friends I have greeting me with a beer toss and hugs that felt long overdue. Everything is right in the world of Donny. Except for the very real fact that the White Sox just blazed a historic run through the playoffs for their first World Series since 1917. To be honest, I didn't really care THAT MUCH. I mean, I've got good friends, good baseball men, who are Southside supporters so I was happy for those guys. I'm conditioned to dislike everything White Sox, but before they won it all, I had no real opinion. I didn't like them. I didn't hate them. I nothing-ed them.

So I land at Midway on October 27, 2005 with my Cubs hat on and my I-Pod ready with the Chicago playlist. I jump on the "L", send text messages to the appropriate parties and let "Sweet Home, Chicago" wash over me. As we approach downtown it occurs to me... There are seven Sox hats in this traincar alone and only one Cubs hat, which is on my head. Completely understandable. They just won it all, I mean, I know what's happening all over the Southside... "Kids, you're staying at your grandparents house tonight. Honey, put a nice dress on, the Sox just swept the Astros, we're getting drive-thru and doing it twice!" That's one thing, but these people on the train who were giving me smug looks were doing so beneath brand spanking new lids. Brims still rigid, nary a speck of wear and tear. I smiled to myself, tucked this little observation into the fold in my brain labeled "amusing" and rode on. Little did I know, this was a harbinger of things to come.

Flash forward one year. I'm sitting around with the same good friends, watching the Cards in a deciding game, wondering out loud if I should go with the Chris Farley coconuts-and-hula skirt Superfan or the more traditional George Wendt Mug-and-Stache Superfan for Halloween. At this point, White Sox fans are pretty much the most miserable people in the world with only a few notable and distinguished exceptions. Sports-talk radio callers have, as a population, become 30 IQ points dimmer in the past year. What ever happened to the Five-Year Grace period? They just won the World Series, and yet, as if possessed, Sox fans froth at the mouth with venom about their players. They, overnight, have become a force on the Chicago scene and it stinks of fearweatherism. Also, I don't understand how anyone can pull for A.J. Pierzynski, I'm sorry, I just can't.

Cardinals Fan, I fear our relationship is doomed to the same fate. Whenever we play and the place is packed with both fan bases, it's always fun. I circle that series on my calendar. It's a lasting institution on the baseball landscape, this rivalry, and I've always thought that mutual ground made things right. An old lady, dripping red from head to toe, keeping score at Wrigley during her annual pilgrimage to Chicago. A father, wearing Sandberg, and a son, wearing Lee, skipping work and school to see Opening Day. The learned fanaticism and devotion creating something exquisitely engaging. That is, until you went and won it all with your worst team in years. I've managed to befriend a Cardinals fan or two in my travels and I know they're out there... But I have the feeling this is going to get ugly soon. I mean, I get "Cubs Suck". That's standard fare, hell, even though they just won, Cardinals Suck. What lies ahead though will be a gradual change from healthy smacktalk to insufferable posturing. Impromptu and impossibly lame renditions of "We are the Champions" out at bars. A further proliferation of played-out stereotypes and tired anti-Cubs websites (Seriously, didn't we grow out of those weak "you're gay" jokes in grade school? Guess not.) will become more and more in vouge. I can't even fathom how the national media will run with this either. I'm just saying there has never been a time I can remember that being a Cubs fan is such a chore because of the other man's obsession with this thing called a curse. What a shitshow.

Ok, time for Da Bears.

Chicago Sports Moments

There are rarified moments in life that seem surreal, especially as they are happening. They defy that which was previous known and expected and open up a whole new avenue of perspective. Like being knocked down by a perfect wave rolling into land, you experience it as a removed witness from your own bursting sensations. You pause, as if to acknowledge that this is an instant classic, because you feel something inside of you change. Something that will always be with you. And it's something different for everybody.

You could say a first kiss could have some of these qualities, but much of that is confused by expectancy and the inherent awkwardness of a 15 year old. Perhaps it's something closer to what some call a "religious experience" although I am largely suspect as to what exact ingredients comprise that sometimes hard-to-swallow philosophical stew. From personal experience, I've found Nature to provide some of the most fulfilling moments of personal reflection and peace. Standing on the summit of the Haleakala crater in Hawaii at 5am with my folks, ten thousand feet up there, above the clouds, watching the sunrise and the moon set simultaneously. Or canoeing away from Admiralty Island in Alaska on silver and black water in the middle of the night, the moon stunningly brilliant above.

In some ways I think we thrive on these private revelations. We construct our own meanings for them and understand them differently, but what remains is a common ground, a defining part of an elemental character. We struggle with the same need to understand, so really our ability see the other man's side amounts to seeing his or her humanity between the lines. The galvanizing impact of a series of events that leads to moments of collective clarity.

Ok, enough of that.

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 1



Chicago Bulls Player Introductions

I remember the Chicago Stadium in the early 90's. It was the loudest, wildest, most exhilarating place in the world as far as a 11 year old boy could tell you. A vastly important relic that hosted events that effected a civilization of much more than just basketball fans. It was where Michael Jordan played basketball. Period.

I recall it smelling like a gym locker room in there. It had graffiti crawling up the sides of it and everything looked dirty except the glossy golden court. The United Center is a finely maintained facility and (given the right company) a raucous good time, but it doesn’t quite measure up to The Stadium for me. They both, however, share that moment of deafening Zen. Turn up the volume and enjoy the goosebumps...

Sports Fan Moment Number 2

Hearing the Bears fight song while you shuffle
out of Soldier Field after a big win

Never fails. Walking out of there like a pack of orange and blue popsicles, all layered up, reliving big plays, laughing and prognosticating. Then you hear the horns start somewhere in the distance, a couple of old guys huddled around their van, belting it out of their trumpets like they've been doing for 30 years. Chanting crowds move past them toward Michigan Avenue, puffs of warm breath everywhere. But the drunks usually linger, singing, dancing, carrying on. The most fun you can have outside on a 5 degree afternoon in Chicago.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Make every play clear the way to victory!
Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Put up a fight with a might so fearlessly!

We'll never forget the way you thrilled the nation,
With your T formation.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
And let them know why you're wearing the crown.

You're the pride and joy,
of all Illinois.

Chicago Bears, Bear Down!

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 3

This is Addison, Doors Open on the Left at Addison

There is nothing like rolling up to your first game of the season, shoulder to shoulder in a crowded traincar, twenty minutes before the first pitch. Nothing.

Monday Night Football

At first I was somewhat reluctant to call Monday Night Football my new safe sanctuary away from the daily strife that occurs constantly around me, hovering about, just outside my very walls (as has been so thoroughly advertised in the "Is it Monday Night Yet?" commercials, billboards, radio promos, etc.) and I wanted to enjoy this weekly participatory social encounter as just another excellent (albeit transparent) excuse to get drunk on a weekday which lands before Thursday (which consequently, I might add, has once again attained the "Thursday Night, It's The New Friday Night" drinking status. Glad to see that coming back in vouge). I mean, I watch Monday Night every week because I am a football watcher by nature, but I'm not ready to jump head-first into the MNF sideshow that always seems to be accompanied by pointless fanfare. With the one exception, of course, being the Falcons-Saints game which I watched with the rest of the U.S. as we collectively clutched our sides with honest joy when the Superdome erupted after that first blocked punt/touchdown sequence. That was universally powerful stuff. But I tuned in early for the overhead shots, for the before-and-afters, for the reminders, for the ability to believe in a brighter tomorrow and for all that other built-in stuff that the NFL played up so brilliantly. The game itself was just an excuse to have New Orleans on display which was timely, needed and appreciated. That's one thing, that affects the coping mechanisms of a nation, that's a cause. But what happens when the game itself is the selling point, the reason to care. Then is all this artificially generated hype enough to fuel the fire? Does an Average Joe care about who sings the opening number or who's in the booth when the game is a yawner?

Week 2: Jacksonville 9, Pittsburgh 0

Which set the record for times Joe Theisman reminds the audience that good defensive football combined with sloppy execution on offense is also fun to watch. Which made me slightly homicidal, but I'm over it by now. For the most part.

Week 5: Denver 13, Baltimore 3

The frozen tundra of Investco Field, bad weather conditions, two great defenses, two aging vets who throw into double coverage, needless to say, you get the picture. I listened to the second half on Westwood One because I needed a little Marv Albert in my life and it was more enjoyable than had I actually watched the game. The only reason I kept listening was because there were fantasy implications involved..

(Which actually reminds me how the phrase "fantasy implications" has now become this ominous word we men use in increasingly odd situations. For instance, two couples are out at dinner and the women begin discussing Eva Longoria and her split with Tony Parker. Then they talk about how they don't really like her Desperate Housewives character anyway and then they both decide that the whole show has been going downhill since the second season and they like Grey's Anatomy better... On the other side of the table, after hearing the Tony Parker news, the men immediately grab bread rolls and start gnawing on them pensively because they both have him in their keeper leagues. He won't be in a contract year until 2009, he's going to be chasing around NBA groupie pussy, he's going to get fat, slow down, dog it on defense, start settling for jumpers and slowly morph into Gary Payton. Those damn fantasy implications haunt us around every corner...)

Week 4: Philadelphia 31, Green Bay 9

The only reason to watch the Packers anymore is to bet the Over/Under on Brett Favre interceptions and to watch his postgame comments which usually stammer out, "Well, we're just not that good anymore, are we? We aren't there anymore and I, for one, don't know how else to say it. Not. Very. Good. It's what the facts are and those are the facts of the matter." The whole time he's wearing that affable expression, salt and pepper beard, an aww shucks! sincerity which is slowly driving cheeseheads mad... What can I say? It is to smile.





But then, MNF Week 6 happens. And everything I thought I knew or cared to know about this cultural phenomenon got turned on its head. I turned off my cell phone a half hour before kickoff because I needed complete concentration. I would be like the monks on high, attaining a level of ferocious effort, my mind balancing like a candle flame, striving towards truth and understanding. By halftime, I was two pitchers of Miller into things and elbow deep in a plate of buffalo wings. Enlightenment, indeed! To be honest though, I was worried and anxious and terrified that this 5-week Bears lovefest was over when the Cardinals trotted into the locker room up 20-0 at the half. I never wanted to turn on my phone again. I knew the Bye week was going to feel like forever with this Prime Time embarrassment hanging over us. I knew my SuperFans halloween costume replete with 19-0 shades (19 on one lens, dash, 0 on the other lens) would seem even more tragic and played out. I walked around the bar with a sullen expression during halftime.

The one moment of levity came when a drunken guy I never met before raised his hand to me, palm forward and yelled, "Vasher baby! Yeah! That’s a good one!" I tilted my head slightly in confusion and then he motioned to my jersey and the 31 that was scrolled across it. Then, understanding the situation, I turned around so he could realize that I was in fact wearing a Rashaan Salaam jersey (circa 1996). He crinkled up his nose and recoiled, lifting up his right eyebrow ever-so-slightly as he did, finally breathing out swiftly. He reacted as if I offered to smell his farts for a set fee per fart, which would be arrived at later after some lengthy haggling. And that's exactly the look I go for.

It still makes me proud to wear this thing, one of the biggest busts in Bears history which was all the more troubling because he showed so much promise with that 1,000 yard rushing rookie season. And then the fumbling began, and then the leg injury came, and then during a rehab stint he picked up a drug problem and then he faded into oblivion. The thing that kills me is that he won a Heisman Trophy and demonstrated that he was built to play on Sunday with the big boys. He had the tools to be the next Neal Anderson, but the drugs proved too tough to beat, but I'm not talking about painkillers or cocaine... No, he's a pothead. He's Ricky Williams Light. He should be in those drug awareness commericals instead of stoned teenagers in a drive-thru running over little girls on bikes. Rashaan bounced around in the NFL for a few years, tried the XFL and retired. Bottomline, I wear this jersey because I want that reaction from people. I want them to look and me and shake their heads and say, "Why?"

And I'll make a grand turn to them, look them square in the eyes, pause for effect, and say, "Why, indeed. Why...indeed."

Needless to say, we all saw what happened in the second half. How do I know that? Because it was on Monday Night Football, bitches. And that's the point of this whole thing. The games might be tough to watch or oddly marketed, but everyone watches them. It's like a cultural yardstick and I feel good that the Bears did what they did. They dispelled their mythic myth, displayed their mortality and made away into the dry Arizona heat with a comeback I'll never forget. I'm glad I understand once again. So MNF, like George Castanza, "I'M BACK BABY!"

I turned on my cellphone before I went to bed and these beauties rolled in as an eloquent timeline of the game. Enjoy...

Maloney - "The superbears going to let bearlaucher beardown so hard I'm going to have a bear-gasam"
Wags - "I love that Leinart is miked. This could make for great comedy."
Uncle Jeff - "Matt da bear killer?"
Hodnett - "M. Lienart... Golden Boy"
Kras - "WTF is going on with the bears?"
Hodnett - "Sexy Rexy"
Uncle Jeff - "Holy Shit"
Kate - "This game sucks"
TK - "What’s this ole bullshit?"
Beckwith - "I’m ready for some football. Is your team?"
Wags - "If I die tonite I will stand before my lord a humbled man."
Bauer - "Can you believe that SHIT?!?"
Mariano - "Holy Shit"
Stemmler - "Clean your drawers home boy, you shit yourself tonight"