The "Steve Bartman Game"- Ten Years Later.
It occurred to me this spring, while on the phone with an old friend, that our sports teams are a large part of what define us. I hadn't spoken to my friend in years, and we wound up talking about my Bruins and his Sabres. I don't know the names of his children, but I know what hockey team he cheers for. I brought this up in our conversation, and we came to the realization that with free agency and trades, the people playing the sport are not the object of our affection, it is the team. It is that uniform, that logo, that team. It is part of you; you are affected by the performance of a bunch of people that you have never met. It doesn't make a lot of sense. But that's how it is. I suppose there is the need to be part of something bigger, to have an "us" to cheer for in these contests, a chance to claim victory, now that battles aren't de rigueur for the average Joe. This phenomenon could be a doctoral thesis topic, I'm sure.
What does this have to do with a baseball game that was played a decade ago? Everything.
I have been a Cubs fan since 1983, when I found that most of the players that I had drafted in our fantasy league were on the same team. I still loved the more or less local Montreal Expos, but I had a new team, and was cheering for the division rivals from Chicago. In 1984, I followed the box scores daily, and felt my first taste of a pennant race. And disappointment. I was watching as the ball went through Leon Durham's legs. It didn't register as a catastrophe to me. I was too new at this.
"There's always next year," I thought. I didn't realize that this was very close to the mantra of the legion of fans that supported this team. I was a natural.
I followed the Cubbies through the rest of the eighties, and 1989 rolled around. The Boys of Zimmer. Any doubts I had were extinguished. I loved that team. They managed to miraculously win the pennant, when they really had no business doing so. It was a young team, managed irrationally by a guy who looked like a gerbil. How could you not love these guys. They were over matched, and the Giants had little problem progressing to the World Series. That one stung.
I made my first trip to Wrigley in 1991, and another in 1994. I sat with my father, an Expos fan, who cheered for the goddamned St. Louis Cardinals, at Wrigley, as they stomped the Cubs 16-4. Every run they scored tore at my heart. He didn't let up, either.It was full bore on the ribbing. In our house. I didn't speak to him for hours after the game, I was so pissed off. These things make one emotional.
In 1998, the Cubs were there again. Brant Brown escaped inclusion on the list of shame after the Cubs beat the Giants in a one game playoff to make it into the postseason. With three games left, he dropped the ball, allowing the Brewers to come back to win the game. It was almost the end of Ron Santo, and the collective psyche of Cubs fans was shaken again. Regardless, they made it in to face the Braves and Tom Glavine's magically expanding strike zone; the hapless Northsiders were swept in three straight games. I felt sick. Cheated by the umpires, the front office for letting Maddux go to Atlanta, I just wanted my boys to win so badly. Tack on this incessant talk of goats and black cats, and well, curses, you feel that there is some force working against your team, and by extension, you. As a result, one starts to believe that it all must be true. We, as "Cubs Nation" (ugh... I hate that term), must be snake-bitten. Why else does this keep happening?
You don't have to be Sigmund Freud to realize this is not a good state of mind. Handle with Care.
Flash forward to 2003. The season was about halfway through when things started to look up. Hendry traded for Kenny Lofton, a bona-fide leadoff hitter and playoff perennial, and Aramis Ramirez. Ramirez was the answer to the revolving door at third base on the North Side since Ron Santo retired. A couple of key pieces fell right into place. Randall Simon was added later on, and added a little pop to the batting order. His sausage tackling days were behind him, and he was ready to contribute. They won the division finishing the season with a meager 88 wins, good enough for a game lead over Houston.
So the stage was set. The dreaded Atlanta Braves were the opponent. The same Braves who swept us the last time. Revenge would be sweet, but not likely, the Braves won 101 games, and were in their 9th consecutive playoffs. The Cubbies managed to win the series, trading games with the Braves, including a complete game two hit performance by young stud Mark Prior. Kerry Wood won the fifth game, pitching eight innings and surrendering only one run. The Cubs had won a playoff series! This thing was turning around. Next up were the Florida Marlins.
Now, to set the stage for how this unfolded personally for me, we have to go back to mid September, when the Cubs magic number was posted on the fridge and updated daily. My live in girlfriend, who we will call "The Whore", was having some drinks at the bar with some folks I played ball with. She was trying to be glib in a conversation, and let the cat out of the bag. She had been sleeping with one of my buddies. My friends were all shocked and put into an awkward position. One guy could not live with himself, knowing what he knew. He called me over to his place and spilled the beans. Good man. The accused came over during the seventh inning of a late September game. In the aftermath, which involved an amusing Q and A session with the two of them, where he answered truthfully that they had indeed been sleeping together for a while; she had maintained up to this point that it had been a mistake induced by alcohol on one hopefully soon to be forgotten evening. Well, "The Whore" got so mad at his candor that she punched him right between the eyes. The Cubs had won by this point, so I was overjoyed at this. Later, after we had all had our fill of beer and scotch, he pitched the empty bottle into my backyard and took a swing at me. I easily avoided getting hit, and generously offered him the couch to sleep it off. He refused, and started driving home. "The Whore" called the police on him, and he got an impaired driving charge. This was all very amusing to me.
I needed to bring that up to illustrate that I had very personal issues at that time; and my escape route, my grip on something worthwhile at that moment, was the Chicago Cubs and their bid for the postseason. Everyone has things happening in their lives, and I would argue that my case was not unique. People invest so much into their sports teams because it provides some form of escape from life's realities.
Finally, the point of all this. After two games went to extra innings and a couple of blowouts by the Cubs, the series sat at 3-1 Cubs. Josh Beckett pitched a gem in game 5, a two hit, complete game shutout. The party had to wait another night. But it was OK. Mark Prior was taking the ball, and we were going to be heading to the World Series. In fact, Prior pitched wonderfully, scattering a couple of hits, and was up 3-0 after the Florida half of the seventh. Now for those keeping track at home, counting down the outs, we were six outs away from being in the World Series. The first time since World War II that the Cubs would have been there. The feeling was electric. For the seventh inning stretch, the singer was Bernie Mac. He sang "Root, root, root, for the champions" in place of the "home team". I'm sure he was caught up in the moment, but the baseball gods don't like to be shown up. This was the first omen that something was up.
At my house in Northern British Columbia, a world away, but as emotionally invested as anyone at the park, I sat alone on my couch, leaning forward with my chin on my hands, elbows on my knees. My leg had started jittering around the fourth inning, and I was so nervous I had tremors similar to those experienced by unfortunate souls having to live with Parkinson's disease. "The Whore" had been watching too, but her friend G had just stopped by unexpectedly to see how things were going in our harmonious little home.
"Hey G," I greeted her, " beer's in the fridge, I'll take one too, if you are going."
They brought a beer, I gave them a quick rundown on the game. Then I basically told them to be quiet, or go talk somewhere else. I have since apologized, most recently yesterday, for being so rude, but it was time to take care of business.
The first out was a fly ball. Five outs to go! Then that pesky Juan Pierre lines a double. No big deal, we just need two outs. Luis Castillo steps up and starts a nine pitch at bat. Crack! He sends one down the line that Alou is rushing over to grab. He leaps! A group of fans reach out and try to catch the ball, it goes off of one of their hands and Alou makes no catch. The ball goes into the stands, and the umpires overrule Alou's protest for fan interference, ruling the ball was in the stands when the play would have been made.
Reading that last sentence over, it doesn't seem like a very significant play at all. But here's what happens. Alou freaks out. He starts sputtering and jumping around like a kid who is just a little too short to go on the ride at the amusement park. God knows what Spanish words were coming out of his mouth, but I'm sure my daughter hasn't learned those ones watching Dora the Explorer. A quick aside, the next year Alou was making public statements about the umpires having it out for him. Sounds like a little kid having a tantrum again. It might be a coincidence, might not be.
Alou's reaction raised everyone's eyebrows. Something Happened. Oh Shit. The Curse. What just happened? Here we go again. OH SHIT. Fox was covering the game, and they showed the fan about a million times on the replay. Word spread in the stadium, and on the streets surrounding the stadium, and across the country and around the world. Someone (an entity that can be blamed) interfered with that sure catch of Alou's. We didn't know his name at the time, but that someone was Steve Bartman.
I was not immune, as the replays rolled by showing the fan touching the ball, I flew into a rage. I threw my beer into the fireplace, the dog ran into the back of the house, "The Whore" started to yell at me as I flipped over the coffee table and started ranting and raving like a lunatic. I suggested that she leave me alone, and G decided that she had somewhere else to be. I have never been so angry in my life. Everything felt like it was starting to unravel. My home life was a shambles, and now the dream of a World Series was coming to an end.
The world didn't end; the game wasn't over; in fact, the at bat wasn't over. Prior threw a wild pitch. Pierre advanced to third base. We still had a three run lead. Then Castillo got away from him and went to first base with a walk. By my count, Prior had thrown 124 pitches to this point. Many armchair managers say that this was the time to pull Prior out of the game for a reliever. Dusty left him in. Prior is still trying to make it back to the Show after battling arm problems. Draw your own conclusions on that one.
Ivan Rodriguez lines a single, scoring Pierre, and putting Castillo on second. No problem, a little double play ball, and we are out of this, Pierre was likely going to score anyway, forget about him. Focus on getting these 2, no these 5 outs, and the boys are spraying champagne and getting ready for the Yanks or Bosox. Maybe after a double, a wild pitch, a walk and a single, in a decisive game in the playoffs after 127 pitches, maybe then, it's time to get your starter out of there and let the bullpen do it's job. Nope. Not yet. Baker left him in.
Meanwhile in the stands, hatred is swirling around the poor guy down the left field line, who is stoically watching his Cubs lead being threatened, likely hearing reports on the radio broadcast he was listening to of some dolt interfering with a sure catch by Alou, and wondering who this poor bastard was. There had to be a moment of realization where he knew that he was at the center of this growing whirlpool of ire.
"Tighten up the shit-jib Randy, we're headed toward the eye of a shitticane." - Mr. Leahy.
To the plate comes Miguel Cabrera. Prior made his pitch, and Cabrera hits a grounder to normally steady handed Alex Gonzalez at short. This ball absolutely ate him up. The tailor made double play ball became an error. The bases were loaded. This to my mind was the MOMENT. I knew that we weren't going to win the game, and we weren't going to win the series. That booted ball sucked the life right out of me. It sucked the life out of the stadium as well. The curse was alive and well, what further proof do you need. The rest of it is history, the inning ended with the Marlins up 8-3, they went on to win the next night, and the World Series after that. The lone bright spots for that game 7 were Kerry Wood's home run that gave us hope, and Alou hit one out to give us a lead, but it was all over.
Shortly thereafter, "The Whore" was investigated by Canada Customs after they were tipped off she was working illegally in Canada. She had to return to her native U.S, and was no longer a concern of mine. I swear that I didn't make that call. It was however a welcome turn of events for me, it took care of a lot of little inconveniences. But I digress....
The documentary "Catching Hell" pieces all of this together (with the exception of the deportation of "The Whore") and parallels it with the experiences of Bill Buckner. Oddly enough, it was not the botched play by the millionaire Gonzalez that caused our fears to be realized; it was a foul ball; touched by someone who probably maxed out his credit cards to get those seats, hoping to be there to root his beloved Cubs into the World Series. I can understand Gonzalez getting the Buckner treatment, or the Durham treatment if you prefer, or be mentioned with the black cat and the goat, but it is Steve Bartman, paying customer, who has the dubious honour.
The media is to blame as well, had they gotten on with the broadcast without showing the culprit in the green turtleneck, Cubs hat and headphones over and over, it may have gone away. But the crowd started in on him, shouting obscenities and hurling beer and other things at him as he sat, seemingly alone, trying to watch the game. He was escorted out of the seating area and eventually made his way out of the stadium with the help of security. The newspaper released his name, and his ADDRESS. That is insane. This guy's life has changed forever over a baseball game.
To his credit, he issued an apology, and has flown completely under the radar since the incident. He has apparently had ample opportunity to make a lot of money off of the incident, yet there is no Bartman movie, no Dancing With the Stars, just a decade of secrecy and forced private living. I know damn well that had I been at that game, in that seat, I would have gone for that ball. No doubt about it. Anyone would. A souvenir from the game where the Cubs got into the World Series for the first time since 1945? Hell yeah, I'm grabbing for it.
So what does the passage of ten years bring? There have been no playoff wins for the Cubs, that's for sure. They made it in twice, but got swept by Arizona and L.A. Strangely there were no excuses, no scapegoats for those series. The curse just held course, it didn't have to rear its ugly head in a definite moment. That is why I feel bad for this fan who was truly just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tied to the tracks and a train driven by Murphy, with his goat, Leon Durham and Brant Brown as passengers, and a black cat roaming the cars, was hurtling directly at him. You can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. For my part, I am sorry for any ill will I bore for this guy. I imagine the people that were there feel significantly worse. I read a tweet on Twitter today where someone proudly posted that their dad was the guy in "Catching Hell" that was looking to fight Bartman. That's something to be proud of; classy stuff. But who knows what demons were being held back by the hopes of his Cubs making it to the World Series? When those hopes are dashed, and there is clear target, why not take the shot? The wolf pack that is howling and egging you on won't stop you. But when the target is the wrong one, and you know it is, but you continue to get rid of that immense frustration, doesn't that take it's toll on you as well? Shame on us all.
In a season where a glance at the box scores and headlines was enough to whet my appetite, and really that was all that was going on, the furor and passion of a pennant race and playoff baseball is the farthest thing from my mind this October. I bet Mr. Bartman hopes that Rizzo and Castro can put it all together, and that Kris Bryant turns into the Aramis Ramirez of this decade. I'll bet he is still a huge fan of the team. Because a little part of him died that night, to be sure. He was a fan that had his hopes dashed just like the rest of us. He wasn't paid to make a double play, or get the ball into the strike zone, or pull a pitcher who had nothing left in the tank, but was just a fan who wanted a World Series just as much as anyone else in that stadium. Or watching from afar.
The only thing I can be sure of, is we all lost a little something that night ten years ago. I think the reaction was shocking and a little scary. Cub fandom should really be ashamed of how this guy has been vilified. However, Bartman's silence and reluctance to cash in on what is most certainly his fifteen minutes of fame, is proof that there is still one Cub fan with class.
So the stage was set. The dreaded Atlanta Braves were the opponent. The same Braves who swept us the last time. Revenge would be sweet, but not likely, the Braves won 101 games, and were in their 9th consecutive playoffs. The Cubbies managed to win the series, trading games with the Braves, including a complete game two hit performance by young stud Mark Prior. Kerry Wood won the fifth game, pitching eight innings and surrendering only one run. The Cubs had won a playoff series! This thing was turning around. Next up were the Florida Marlins.
Now, to set the stage for how this unfolded personally for me, we have to go back to mid September, when the Cubs magic number was posted on the fridge and updated daily. My live in girlfriend, who we will call "The Whore", was having some drinks at the bar with some folks I played ball with. She was trying to be glib in a conversation, and let the cat out of the bag. She had been sleeping with one of my buddies. My friends were all shocked and put into an awkward position. One guy could not live with himself, knowing what he knew. He called me over to his place and spilled the beans. Good man. The accused came over during the seventh inning of a late September game. In the aftermath, which involved an amusing Q and A session with the two of them, where he answered truthfully that they had indeed been sleeping together for a while; she had maintained up to this point that it had been a mistake induced by alcohol on one hopefully soon to be forgotten evening. Well, "The Whore" got so mad at his candor that she punched him right between the eyes. The Cubs had won by this point, so I was overjoyed at this. Later, after we had all had our fill of beer and scotch, he pitched the empty bottle into my backyard and took a swing at me. I easily avoided getting hit, and generously offered him the couch to sleep it off. He refused, and started driving home. "The Whore" called the police on him, and he got an impaired driving charge. This was all very amusing to me.
I needed to bring that up to illustrate that I had very personal issues at that time; and my escape route, my grip on something worthwhile at that moment, was the Chicago Cubs and their bid for the postseason. Everyone has things happening in their lives, and I would argue that my case was not unique. People invest so much into their sports teams because it provides some form of escape from life's realities.
Finally, the point of all this. After two games went to extra innings and a couple of blowouts by the Cubs, the series sat at 3-1 Cubs. Josh Beckett pitched a gem in game 5, a two hit, complete game shutout. The party had to wait another night. But it was OK. Mark Prior was taking the ball, and we were going to be heading to the World Series. In fact, Prior pitched wonderfully, scattering a couple of hits, and was up 3-0 after the Florida half of the seventh. Now for those keeping track at home, counting down the outs, we were six outs away from being in the World Series. The first time since World War II that the Cubs would have been there. The feeling was electric. For the seventh inning stretch, the singer was Bernie Mac. He sang "Root, root, root, for the champions" in place of the "home team". I'm sure he was caught up in the moment, but the baseball gods don't like to be shown up. This was the first omen that something was up.
At my house in Northern British Columbia, a world away, but as emotionally invested as anyone at the park, I sat alone on my couch, leaning forward with my chin on my hands, elbows on my knees. My leg had started jittering around the fourth inning, and I was so nervous I had tremors similar to those experienced by unfortunate souls having to live with Parkinson's disease. "The Whore" had been watching too, but her friend G had just stopped by unexpectedly to see how things were going in our harmonious little home.
"Hey G," I greeted her, " beer's in the fridge, I'll take one too, if you are going."
They brought a beer, I gave them a quick rundown on the game. Then I basically told them to be quiet, or go talk somewhere else. I have since apologized, most recently yesterday, for being so rude, but it was time to take care of business.
The first out was a fly ball. Five outs to go! Then that pesky Juan Pierre lines a double. No big deal, we just need two outs. Luis Castillo steps up and starts a nine pitch at bat. Crack! He sends one down the line that Alou is rushing over to grab. He leaps! A group of fans reach out and try to catch the ball, it goes off of one of their hands and Alou makes no catch. The ball goes into the stands, and the umpires overrule Alou's protest for fan interference, ruling the ball was in the stands when the play would have been made.
Reading that last sentence over, it doesn't seem like a very significant play at all. But here's what happens. Alou freaks out. He starts sputtering and jumping around like a kid who is just a little too short to go on the ride at the amusement park. God knows what Spanish words were coming out of his mouth, but I'm sure my daughter hasn't learned those ones watching Dora the Explorer. A quick aside, the next year Alou was making public statements about the umpires having it out for him. Sounds like a little kid having a tantrum again. It might be a coincidence, might not be.
Alou's reaction raised everyone's eyebrows. Something Happened. Oh Shit. The Curse. What just happened? Here we go again. OH SHIT. Fox was covering the game, and they showed the fan about a million times on the replay. Word spread in the stadium, and on the streets surrounding the stadium, and across the country and around the world. Someone (an entity that can be blamed) interfered with that sure catch of Alou's. We didn't know his name at the time, but that someone was Steve Bartman.
I was not immune, as the replays rolled by showing the fan touching the ball, I flew into a rage. I threw my beer into the fireplace, the dog ran into the back of the house, "The Whore" started to yell at me as I flipped over the coffee table and started ranting and raving like a lunatic. I suggested that she leave me alone, and G decided that she had somewhere else to be. I have never been so angry in my life. Everything felt like it was starting to unravel. My home life was a shambles, and now the dream of a World Series was coming to an end.
The world didn't end; the game wasn't over; in fact, the at bat wasn't over. Prior threw a wild pitch. Pierre advanced to third base. We still had a three run lead. Then Castillo got away from him and went to first base with a walk. By my count, Prior had thrown 124 pitches to this point. Many armchair managers say that this was the time to pull Prior out of the game for a reliever. Dusty left him in. Prior is still trying to make it back to the Show after battling arm problems. Draw your own conclusions on that one.
Ivan Rodriguez lines a single, scoring Pierre, and putting Castillo on second. No problem, a little double play ball, and we are out of this, Pierre was likely going to score anyway, forget about him. Focus on getting these 2, no these 5 outs, and the boys are spraying champagne and getting ready for the Yanks or Bosox. Maybe after a double, a wild pitch, a walk and a single, in a decisive game in the playoffs after 127 pitches, maybe then, it's time to get your starter out of there and let the bullpen do it's job. Nope. Not yet. Baker left him in.
Meanwhile in the stands, hatred is swirling around the poor guy down the left field line, who is stoically watching his Cubs lead being threatened, likely hearing reports on the radio broadcast he was listening to of some dolt interfering with a sure catch by Alou, and wondering who this poor bastard was. There had to be a moment of realization where he knew that he was at the center of this growing whirlpool of ire.
"Tighten up the shit-jib Randy, we're headed toward the eye of a shitticane." - Mr. Leahy.
To the plate comes Miguel Cabrera. Prior made his pitch, and Cabrera hits a grounder to normally steady handed Alex Gonzalez at short. This ball absolutely ate him up. The tailor made double play ball became an error. The bases were loaded. This to my mind was the MOMENT. I knew that we weren't going to win the game, and we weren't going to win the series. That booted ball sucked the life right out of me. It sucked the life out of the stadium as well. The curse was alive and well, what further proof do you need. The rest of it is history, the inning ended with the Marlins up 8-3, they went on to win the next night, and the World Series after that. The lone bright spots for that game 7 were Kerry Wood's home run that gave us hope, and Alou hit one out to give us a lead, but it was all over.
Shortly thereafter, "The Whore" was investigated by Canada Customs after they were tipped off she was working illegally in Canada. She had to return to her native U.S, and was no longer a concern of mine. I swear that I didn't make that call. It was however a welcome turn of events for me, it took care of a lot of little inconveniences. But I digress....
The documentary "Catching Hell" pieces all of this together (with the exception of the deportation of "The Whore") and parallels it with the experiences of Bill Buckner. Oddly enough, it was not the botched play by the millionaire Gonzalez that caused our fears to be realized; it was a foul ball; touched by someone who probably maxed out his credit cards to get those seats, hoping to be there to root his beloved Cubs into the World Series. I can understand Gonzalez getting the Buckner treatment, or the Durham treatment if you prefer, or be mentioned with the black cat and the goat, but it is Steve Bartman, paying customer, who has the dubious honour.
The media is to blame as well, had they gotten on with the broadcast without showing the culprit in the green turtleneck, Cubs hat and headphones over and over, it may have gone away. But the crowd started in on him, shouting obscenities and hurling beer and other things at him as he sat, seemingly alone, trying to watch the game. He was escorted out of the seating area and eventually made his way out of the stadium with the help of security. The newspaper released his name, and his ADDRESS. That is insane. This guy's life has changed forever over a baseball game.
To his credit, he issued an apology, and has flown completely under the radar since the incident. He has apparently had ample opportunity to make a lot of money off of the incident, yet there is no Bartman movie, no Dancing With the Stars, just a decade of secrecy and forced private living. I know damn well that had I been at that game, in that seat, I would have gone for that ball. No doubt about it. Anyone would. A souvenir from the game where the Cubs got into the World Series for the first time since 1945? Hell yeah, I'm grabbing for it.
So what does the passage of ten years bring? There have been no playoff wins for the Cubs, that's for sure. They made it in twice, but got swept by Arizona and L.A. Strangely there were no excuses, no scapegoats for those series. The curse just held course, it didn't have to rear its ugly head in a definite moment. That is why I feel bad for this fan who was truly just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tied to the tracks and a train driven by Murphy, with his goat, Leon Durham and Brant Brown as passengers, and a black cat roaming the cars, was hurtling directly at him. You can't put the toothpaste back in the tube. For my part, I am sorry for any ill will I bore for this guy. I imagine the people that were there feel significantly worse. I read a tweet on Twitter today where someone proudly posted that their dad was the guy in "Catching Hell" that was looking to fight Bartman. That's something to be proud of; classy stuff. But who knows what demons were being held back by the hopes of his Cubs making it to the World Series? When those hopes are dashed, and there is clear target, why not take the shot? The wolf pack that is howling and egging you on won't stop you. But when the target is the wrong one, and you know it is, but you continue to get rid of that immense frustration, doesn't that take it's toll on you as well? Shame on us all.
In a season where a glance at the box scores and headlines was enough to whet my appetite, and really that was all that was going on, the furor and passion of a pennant race and playoff baseball is the farthest thing from my mind this October. I bet Mr. Bartman hopes that Rizzo and Castro can put it all together, and that Kris Bryant turns into the Aramis Ramirez of this decade. I'll bet he is still a huge fan of the team. Because a little part of him died that night, to be sure. He was a fan that had his hopes dashed just like the rest of us. He wasn't paid to make a double play, or get the ball into the strike zone, or pull a pitcher who had nothing left in the tank, but was just a fan who wanted a World Series just as much as anyone else in that stadium. Or watching from afar.
The only thing I can be sure of, is we all lost a little something that night ten years ago. I think the reaction was shocking and a little scary. Cub fandom should really be ashamed of how this guy has been vilified. However, Bartman's silence and reluctance to cash in on what is most certainly his fifteen minutes of fame, is proof that there is still one Cub fan with class.
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