Ladies and gentlemen of the Ivy, I have called you here today with purpose. The Chicago Cubs, much against the laws of reason and order, are back in the playoffs. Up is down; left is right; I Can't Believe It's Not Butter has a distinctly rich and buttery taste.
It is understandable that you are confused and perhaps a bit frightened. There hasn't been much experience with this sensation; the Tribune Company has been the latest steward of a proud tradition of "just enough to fill the seats." We have been willing accomplices, of course, warming those tiny chairs repeatedly and discouraging the owners from putting themselves in the terrible position of trying and failing.
Your eyes dart around, looking for the emotional exits. You conjure up scenarios of failure to comfort yourself. The bats will die. The arms will shrivel up and fall off. Certainly Ryan Dempster's goatee will begin speaking to him surreptitiously, forcing him to throw at the mascot in the upper deck. And what of the alien that has been growing in Piniella's stomach since April? That must be nearly ready to burst forth and start down its terrifying path of destruction.
Lay down your worries, Cubs fans. We have hidden behind our fears and guarded ourselves against pain for long enough. The bats will rumble this year. The arms will be fitted with laser sights (and the catchers will receive sunglasses). Ryan Dempster always pitches like that. Piniella's unholy extraterrestrial child was traded to the Padres in June for a case of shoe polish and four tickets to the San Diego Zoo.
Yes, there will be danger at every turn. We will gasp and rend our clothes when the other team goes scores. Signals will be stolen and home plate collisions will be de rigeur. Chin music will drown out the crowd. The men in black will undermine our boys in pinstriped blue at every turn. Losses will wound us. Actually, it's pretty much going to suck sometimes (It sounds better all the time, right?) .
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