The Little Boy and the Curse of the Cubs

Once upon a time, in a wonderful place called the Windy City, there lived a little boy. And it came to pass, in the June summer of 1969, that the little boy had a birthday. The little boy received many wonderful gifts and toys that he could play with for hours without end. He loved his Johnny Lightning racetrack set for his Matchbox cars. He loved his Johnny West and G.I. Joe Talking Commander action figures. He loved his Lite Brite and his Fisher Price Garage with the elevator that actually worked by cranking a little red handle. He loved his Bozo the Clown Colorform Set in which the little pieces “magically” stuck to the board. He loved his "Mousetrap" and "Don’t break the Ice" games.

However, of all those wonderful things, there was one particular toy that he loved and enjoyed above and beyond all others. It was a simple plastic bat and wiffle ball set that the little boy received as a present from the nice old man who ran the delicatessen down the corner from the house in which he lived. When the weather permitted, the little boy would take his little plastic bat and ball into the back yard to play. He would mimic the older boys he saw in the park by tossing the little plastic ball in the air and trying to hit it as it came down. Of course, this wasn’t as easy as the big boys made it appear and the little boy would continually swing and miss, time after time. Sometimes, the little boy’s father or older brother would occasionally come out to throw him a few soft, underhand pitches, but he still would swing and miss the ball. As much as the little boy wanted to hit the ball, he was not sad or mad that he couldn’t because he still had fun trying.

Despite the initial set back, the little boy was determined to hit the ball just like the big boys at the park and the even bigger boys he saw on television. After many long days and hours of practice, something had clicked and sometimes he was able to hit the ball. The little boy discovered that the more he practiced, the easier it became to hit the ball. Soon, he began to hit the ball more and more. Eventually, he could hit the ball with relative ease and very little effort on his part. The little boy couldn’t explain how or why he could suddenly hit the ball. He just could hit it. He could just "feel" when it was the right time to swing. It was as natural as breathing or walking or talking.

The little boy could not hit the ball very far. He could only hit it from the back of his house to the back yard fence and vice versa. He didn’t understand that a little plastic ball with strange oblong holes wasn’t designed to travel far, especially against a good wind. The little boy did not care just so long as he could hit the ball. He didn’t want to hit the ball over the fence and into the alley because he wasn’t allowed to leave his yard unless he was with a grown-up. And so for many hours, he would hit the ball back and forth ... back and forth. The little boy had so much fun. One day he would grow up and be on television and hit the ball just like everyone else.

If things continued as they were, the little boy would have happily spent his whole life hitting the little plastic ball, but fate has a way of destroying such innocence. As the little boy’s skill increased so did his desire to want to know more about the game of baseball. His interest would expand to trading cards and to watching the players on TV. And with that interest, he fell into the inevitable trap and his first encounter of The Curse of the Chicago Cubs.


It had begun innocent enough. The little boy had an “Uncle” John. Unbeknownst to the little boy, Uncle John was not a real God-honest blood uncle. In actuality, Uncle John was a business contact and friend of the little boy’s father. The little boy loved Uncle John for two reasons. First, he was an all-around great guy. Second, and most important, Uncle John was a cowboy!

If there was one other thing the little boy liked just as much as baseball players, it was cowboys and if the little boy couldn’t be a ball player when he grew up, then he would be a cowboy. He would be a cowboy just like the cowboy heroes he loved to watch on TV. He was going to be just like the Lone Ranger and the Cisco Kid and Roy Rogers. He was going to pack a six-shooter and lasso a bull by its horns just like the guys on "Bonanza" and "Gunsmoke." He was going to talk and swagger like his all-time cowboy movie star John “the Duke” Wayne. Now, unlike those cowboys that he only got to see on TV, Uncle John was an actual, bonafide, rootin’-tootin’ cowboy! Uncle John was the little boy’s in-the-flesh cowboy hero. Uncle John was a friggin’ cowboy god!

The little boy was too young to understand, at that time, that Uncle John was not an actual cowboy. Uncle John neither confirmed nor denied that he was a cowboy. However, there were three reasons that the little boy was set in this belief. First, Uncle John was from Texas and only cowboys came from Texas. Second, Uncle John wore a cowboy hat, and only "real cowboys" were allowed to wear cowboy hats. The third, and most important reason, Uncle John owned a horse! The little boy had seen the horse for himself. Occasionally, the little boy’s family would visit that stable in the far suburbs. Uncle John would even let the little boy sit in the saddle and take hold of the reins and have a slow walk around the practice riding coral. The little boy may have been riding in monotonous circles while Uncle John was guiding the horse, but in the little boy’s eyes, he was blazing the lonely trail. Uncle John even took the family to a rodeo. It was the same faith as believing in God or Santa Claus that the little boy believed that Uncle John was a real cowboy. He wanted it bad enough. He wanted to tell all his friends that he had a real cowboy for an uncle and had ridden his horse. When Uncle John came to visit or when the family visited Uncle John, the little boy was not far from his side.

Through no fault of his own, Uncle John had been a lifelong Cubs fan. Uncle John liked to watch the games on TV and the little boy liked watching with him. It was Uncle John who enlightened the boy that not only do the players get to play baseball on TV but they get paid for it, too!


“They get to be on TV and get paid?” the little boy thought to himself. It was too good to be true. “I have to get in on this deal.”

It was Uncle John who had taken him to his first game at Wrigley Field. It was Uncle John who taught him the rules of the game and the names of the players on the team. It was the legendary Leo D. who led the likes of Ron Santo and Randy Huntley and Billy Williams, and who could forget Ernie Banks? It was Uncle John that got the ball rolling, and hooked the poor little boy in. It was an easy trap; for in that summer of 1969, the Cubs had a very good team ... perhaps the best team since their last appearance in the Big Show of 1945. It seemed to the little boy that every time he watched the Cubs, they were always winning. Uncle John claimed that this was finally going be the year and nothing was going to stop them.

One day, while watching a road game, the little boy said to Uncle John, “Why is everybody booing the Cubs?”

“Because they are playing an away game in St. Louis, and the Cubs are the visiting team,” replied Uncle John. “Those are Cardinal fans.”

“But don’t they know that the Cubs are the best?”

“They probably won’t realize that until the Cubs win the Pennant.”

“Pennant?” The little boy said. “What’s that?”

“That’s when you win the National League Championship.”

“Then does that make the Cubs the best, Uncle John?”

“Not yet. Then they go to the World Series and play the American League Champs. They play the best out of seven. The first team to win four games gets to be the best.”

“I bet the Cubs won a lot of World Series.”

“Not for a long time, little partner.”

“Did you ever go to a World Series when the Cubs were in it?”

“Sure did. It was way back in 1945. I was a little older than you are now. They played the Detroit Tigers and it went all seven games. Unfortunately, the Cubs lost but they put up one heck of a fight. Even though they lost, it was still a lot of fun. It was a sight to behold. There’s nothing like seeing your team play in a World Series.”

“1945?” The little boy answered. “That must have been way back in the olden days.”

Uncle John took no offense in that remark. The little boy meant no harm. He was just too young to understand what he just said. Uncle John just laughed. “That’s right, little partner. It was way back in the olden days with the horse and buggy.”

“When I grow up I’m going to go to this World Series and watch the Cubs win.”

“Why wait? We can go now. I know people in the Cubs organization. I can get World Series tickets. Then I plan to take my wife, your dad, and you’re coming along, too, little partner.”

When the little boy heard this, he almost peed in his pants. It was the most exciting thing that ever happened in his short life. It was everything he could possibly hope for. He would be at the biggest game ever with his most favorite person in the world watching his most favorite team winning it all!

All the little boy had to do was wait until fall. It was in the bag. The Cubs were so far ahead that they couldn’t lose. No one could catch them now.


“And nothing can sink this ship?” the iceberg said to the Titanic.


It was in Mid-August of 1969 that the mighty Cubs decided that fate was just smiling too much on them. They began to lose games ... and more games. They lost game after game after game. The specter of greatness was just too much for the team to bear, so they thought better and folded like a bad poker hand.

The year would belong to the Miracle Mets. There would be no World Series for the Cubs. The little boy was very sad.

“Keep your chin up, little partner,” Uncle John told the little boy. “There’s always next year. I’m going to take you to a World Series some day. That’s a promise”


There’s always next year. The phrase would forever haunt the little boy’s mind. Little did he know that the Cubs had enjoyed saying "there’s always next year," that they’d been saying it for over sixty years. The little boy was too young and naive to appreciate the curse.

And so he waited for the next year. And the next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

Even though the little boy hoped, the initial magic was gone. His enthusiasm with the little plastic bat and ball slowly began to fade. Eventually, Uncle John was transferred to an office back in Texas and he lost touch with the little boy and his family. And with the absence of Uncle John, the little boy’s interest in baseball waned. The World Series promise was forgotten by the little boy, along with the baseball cards, plastic bat and ball, which stayed in the basement collecting dust. After time, the little boy pursued other interests. The baseball and cowboy heroes were replaced by the likes of Batman, Spider-man, James Bond, Bruce Lee, Ali, and Stallone.


Years had passed, and the little boy grew up to become a young man. He was now in college and looking forward to having his first legal drink. It was autumn of 1984 and the Cubs were having another good year. They had finally made the playoff and were leading the legendary San Diego Padres two games to naught. Only a single win separated them from the Pennant. The young man was mildly interested in this turn of events but didn’t share the excitement of the rest of the city. It was nice, but no big deal. The rooster had a plethora of nicknames. They had “The Sarge”, “The Bull” and “The Penguin.” They had the likes of “Ryne-O” and the mighty Rick Sutcliff on the mound. Victory was inevitable, but the young man refused to get caught up in all the hoopla. The entire nation seemed to adopt the Cubs. Every one was behind them except, of course, the city of San Diego. Everyone wanted to see that seventy-plus year streak come to an end. Even in this situation, the Cubs managed to screw themselves out of home field advantage. The fifth game was to be played at Wrigley Field but since they didn’t have lights, they could only play day games. The networks had already lost big in the ratings by broadcasting two playoff non-weekend day games and they didn’t plan to lose any more. The fifth game would be played in San Diego. It wouldn’t matter; the Cubs would win long before that.

Fate and the specter of the curse had come back to haunt, taunt, and mock the little boy some fifteen years later. The young man had come home from school early that day because the professor had cancelled the class. It was just as he walked in the door, that he heard the phone ring. The young man answered the phone and a familiar voice that the young man couldn’t quite place had inquired about his father. He was an old friend that dropped into town unexpectedly and decided to look up the young’s man father to see if he would join him for a drink. Since his father wasn’t due home from work for another two hours, the young man asked if he could take a message. He asked for the man’s name and number where he could be reached. Much to the young man’s surprise and delight, it was Uncle John, the cowboy hero of the young man’s youth! The memories and good times flooded back into the young man’s head. The two immediately engaged in conversation and discussed old times.

Then out of the blue, Uncle John said, “How about those Cubs? Only one more game to go.”

“Sure,” laughed the young man. “I guess you finally might get to see them win that World Series after all. Do you plan on going? Do you still have friends in the Cubs organization that can get you tickets?”

“You bet I can.” Then like an avalanche, Uncle John remembered the promise he made to a little boy long ago. “Hey, that’s right. I still owe you a trip to the World Series.”

“Oh, come now,” said the young man not taking it seriously. “That was fifteen years ago. I’m not going to hold you to that.”

“A promise is a promise and it doesn’t matter how old it is. You and I are going to the Big Show.”

And when the young man heard this, he almost peed in his pants just like all those long years before. The little boy inside the young man came alive. After all those long years, the dream was going to come true! In that instant, the young man learned to forgive and forget. It was better to be late than never.

Since Uncle John didn’t want it going around that he could get tickets, he told the young man to keep this conversation under his hat. Uncle John didn’t want other people to hound him to take them to the World Series. That privilege was going to the young man because he didn’t promise anyone else. Just to be on the safe side, he told the young man not to leave a message for his father and he would just call back on his own. As far as anyone else was concerned, they never talked at all. It was their little secret.

Since the young man was going to the World Series, the least thing he could do was support the Cubs in their final victory. So when the team played in San Diego, the young man joined his friends on their pilgrimage to Wrigley Field so they could give a proper celebration. It was in the bag. Surely, even the Cubs could win one lousy game out of three on the road.

It was a fact: No team had ever lost a five game playoff series after winning the first two games. No one ever dropped the last three games ... that is ... until the Cubs had a crack at it. Like a jackass, the young man stood outside Wrigley Field as the Cubs, once again, managed to pull defeat out of the jaws of victory. He watched, via a battery powered TV, as Steve Garvey hit that game winning home run. He watched as “The Bull” let that infield grounder roll between his legs. In one fell swoop, it was all over. There would be no World Series.

The young man couldn’t believe his stupidity by allowing himself to get suckered in again. The little boy inside of him was heart-broken. If the Cubs were destined to lose, why couldn’t they just go down and lose the first three instead of mocking us and losing the last three? Why did they torment us by letting it get so close and then snatching it away? Perhaps in time, he would get over it just like he got over it years ago.


In the back of his mind, he could hear Uncle John. Keep your chin up, little partner. There’s always next year.


There would be no next year for the young man or the little boy ... not now or not ever. The curse was going to take its worst bite ever. Some three months later, the young man needed to go to the neighborhood Osco to pick up some batteries. He asked his father if he could pick up anything for him.

The father handed his son a five-dollar bill and said, “Can you pick me up a condolence card? An old friend of mine has passed away?”

“Anyone I know?” The young man asked.

“You were probably too young to remember, Uncle John.” The father had no clue of the secret conversation of three months before. “He use to take us to his stable where he kept his horse. Funny thing, how his heart just suddenly gave out. He wasn’t much older than me. Never sick a day in his life. Gave up smoking twenty years ago and hardly ever drank. Never overweight. Never had heart problems or family history of heart disease. It was just one of those rare things. Makes you stop and think doesn’t it, son?”

The news hit the young man like a ten-ton weight. What little iota of the spirit of the little boy that still dwelled within the young man, was now totally decimated. It was bad enough that the Cubs blew three games in a row, but this was more than he could bear. Uncle John had lived some fifty years and never seen his beloved Cubs take the championship ... not even one lousy time. The young man cursed the Cubs. He cursed his folly for getting suckered in, yet again. Unlike the little boy, he should have known better. It wouldn’t matter now if the Cubs won the next one hundred World Series’ because he would never get to see them with Uncle John. The young man swore never to put his faith into that abysmal team ever again. They had cheated that little boy out of his innocence and there was no way he could get it back.


The years passed and the young man became an adult. He eventually married and had children of his own. There has been some compensation to the man in championships coming in many different forms. Walter Payton and his Bears had won a Superbowl. The Great Michael Jordan had led the Bulls to six NBA titles. Even Chris Chelios had taken his Blackhawks to the Stanley Cup Finals ... at least they lost quickly and painlessly. The only significant contribution that the Cubs made was finally coming to terms with the twentieth century by finally putting up lights for night games. One year, they even managed to lead the league in home runs, and yet, still finish dead last.

The man ponders the irony of it all. The Cubs have not won a World Series since 1908. Haley’s Comet has visited us twice. There have been two World Wars and two police actions. People have been on the moon. People have lived and died an entire lifetime without seeing the Cubs hold up a World Series trophy. Any one still alive to remember the last time would have to be well into their nineties providing senility hasn’t taken over. The famous play-by-play announcers Harry Carrey and Jack Brickhouse died without uttering the words “Cubs win! Cubs win!”
The Washington Senators, a defunct team, has won a World Series more recently than the Cubs. It only took the expansion team Florida Marlins a mere five years to do it despite the Cubs eighty-five year head start.

Eventually, time heals all wounds and the man learned to forgive the Cubs. From time to time he watches a game on TV or graces Wrigley Field with his presence. He goes just to have a good time with some friends. He goes for the fun of it. He goes to have a few beers and a suntan. He expects nothing from the Cubs. He realizes that it is not the team’s fault that they cannot succeed. Why should the organization strive to better themselves by paying for better players if the fans are willing to settle for mediocrity? The man can’t understand how Wrigley Field packs them in despite no parking, no electronic scoreboard, and all the last place finishes. Are fans loyal or just plain suckers?

Maybe they come for the same reason as the man: for the novelty. Every so often, the Cubs come barreling out with a decent winning streak, but the man refuses to be fooled. He knows that by the time the last hotdog wrapper blows across center field, the Cubs will not be going to the Fall Classic. They will be lucky to finish above fourth place.

Three times since 1984 the Cubs have made the playoffs but the man knows it is not to be. All those times, he has strategically left town with his family on a spur-of -the-moment mini-vacation because he can’t bear to see the Cubs commit post-season hara-kiri. The team even managed to blow a three game to one lead with home field advantage and then blame the whole thing on some poor slob trying to catch a foul ball. When the self-destruction was over, the man would return. All the other fans were upset, but what did they expect? The man knows better. He’s older and wiser.

And yet, in the back of his mind he contemplates. He has forty, perhaps fifty good years left on this Earth. That little boy inside of the man still has a faint glimmer of life left and patiently awaits to come out again some day. What helped keep that poor little boy alive? When the Boston Red Sox overcame a three game to nil deficit over their arch-nemesis Yankees for the pennant and then sweept the Cards. The man was happy for them. And if they could break the Curse of the Bambino, then anything was possible!

Can the Cubs just win the World Series in his lifetime ... just one lousy World Series before he dies?


Keep your chin up, little partner, there’s always next millennium.


UPDATE: At about 11PM CST on October 26, 2005, the little boy came out again. Another Chicago team had captured the World Series. It was the Chicago White Sox and not the Chicago Cubs. It mattered little. His home town had finally seized its first baseball championship in 88 years. The Little boy smiled before going back to sleep… patiently waiting for the Cubs to have their turn.