It’s going into the bottom of the eleventh in the Red Sox/Yankees game, tied at five. But, as much as I want to root against the Yankees, I can’t bring myself to eagerly root for Boston to get what the Cubs Nation was denied.

So, I’ll share the recurring dream I’ve had since the Cubs lost Game 6 and I learned the name of the poor schmuck that intervened in the Cubs shot at redemption.

The North Side sleeps in the wee hours, every shellshocked closed after a miserable night. I alone, in my first trip to Chicago, wander the streets, disbelieving the horrible irony I’d witnessed.

Finding the tallest building in the vicinity of Wrigleyville, I make my way to the rooftop. In a confusing flash, I’m atop the jutting chimney, clad only in faded blue jeans and a battered Cubs hat, primal as the Goat that embodies our misery.

Then, with a baritone deep and loud enough to wake the ghost of Three Fingers Brown, I speak the name given to every Cubs-fans’ distress:


Across Wrigleyville, windows light up, like eyes painfully woken from the dreamy sleep of Nothingness.

It’s alright Steve. You did exactly what most of us would have done. But damn, why did you have to do it then?


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