Why the Cubs Need to Lose the World Series for the Good of Baseball

Well, the grand spectacle that is 2016 is finally winding down. It’s been a year in which we’ve already become used to reading about Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton battling each other for the presidency, or roving gangs of clowns terrorizing the streets of America’s cities, so perhaps it should come as no surprise to us that the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians should be playing each other in the World Series.

 By any measure, that’s historic.  The Cubs, famously, have not won a World Series championship since 1908. To put this into perspective, the last time the cubs won a World Series, a Roosevelt was president, and his first name was not Franklin. The Cubs haven’t so much as won the pennant since 1945. And while the Indian’s World Series drought isn’t as notable, it’s still one of the longest in baseball. While Cleveland has been in a World Series as recently as 1998, they haven’t won one since 1948.  

It is, therefore, perhaps understandable that many people are excited. Despite the fact that the Indians have been waiting almost seventy years for a World Series, swaths of the population are, predictably enough, rallying behind the Cubs, who last won a series title twenty years before the invention of sliced bread.  Perusing the interwebs, one stumbles upon the usual sappy stories: “Woman Born Before 1908 Hoping for Cups Victory.” It couldn’t very well be someone who actually remembers any of the games, because no such person exists. People want to witness history. People want a win for the team that always loses. People want Chicago’s team to have their year of glory at last.

People are wrong. 

For the good of baseball—for the good of America—the Cubs need to lose. Why? There are several reasons, but they can be reduced to this: a victorious Cubs team makes baseball a less beautiful game.

There are teams that haven’t won a World Series in a long time. And then there are the Cubs. Life in 1908 often seems so distant from our own era. It was a life before World Wars, before talking or color in movies, before music on vinyl record became all the rage. But in terms of baseball, it is, if anything, even farther removed. 1908 was right smack in the middle of what is known as the dead-ball era. During this time, baseballs were much softer, as the cork-centered baseball of today wasn’t even invented until 1909, and subsequently did not travel as far. Baseballs were used until they literally fell apart, further decreasing the distance a batter could drive one. Moreover, pitches like the spitball, which were incredibly difficult to hit, were still legal, making it quite a feat to make contact at all. 1908 in particular was the lowest scoring season in the history of baseball, and the last time the Cubs won it all. They used a different, ball, different strategies, and different rules. The modern game begins around 1920, which means that the Cubs have never won a World Series playing baseball as we know it today. 

As much as it will pain the city of Chicago, and the legions of fair weather fans (not that the Cubs usually enjoy that much fair weather) rooting them on, the Cubs need to lose for the good of baseball as a whole. Baseball is a sport with lots of history, and lots of tradition. One of the most beloved of these traditions is giving the Cubs grief for being the team that hasn’t won a World Series in eternity, and they must persevere stoically in that role. It is their lot in life.

In baseball as in everything, there is a story being told, and where there is a story there must be characters. The Yankees are the villains, as everyone will agree. They wear the crisp black and white uniforms, have more money than they know what to do with, boast a legion of obnoxious fans, and they win constantly. That’s their role, and New Yorkers are okay with that. The Dodgers are the scrappy underdogs. They win against all odds, and also lose against all odds. They’re good, but not too good; they sometimes pull it out in the end, and sometimes not. They’re all heart and all thumbs. The Giants are their antagonists, and the Angels are their sidekicks.

And the Cubs? The Cubs are the perpetual losers. They never win, they’re never good, but their city loves them any way. Cubs fans love the Cubbies just the way they are, which, admittedly, is quite more than can be reasonably asked of anyone, but they do. And a Cubs victory will spoil all that.

We need the stories of the Cubs never winning. We need stories of the curse of the Babe. These are the things which make baseball great. When The Bambino's curse was broken in 2004, Boston celebrated. But Baseball lost a bit of its luster.

Not everyone wins. Not every team has their turn in the limelight. Not everyone goes home with a trophy. You just suck it up, cause there’s no crying in baseball. If the Cubs were to win a World Series, it ought to be as the underdog, not as the clear favorite, a hot team with one of the best records in baseball. They may win yet, and Chicago will celebrate. But baseball will be a little less special next year.

11 O'Clock (Or There Abouts)

A book and whiskey late at night
Perhaps a wee pipe I shall light
And think deep thoughts
And drink deep droughts
Before, at last, I snuff the lights
And say a prayer
Push in my chair
And bid the world a fond 'goodnight.''

St.George and the Crocodile: Being a Discourse on How Some People Have All the Luck

Circa 1630 A.D., a crocodile which was kept for kicks in the Court of Charles I of England, slipped out of its cage and, breathing deep the sweet air of freedom, slithered into the dark English woods and disappeared. That is, until it skulked out of the forest and ventured into the small town of Wormingford where it terrorized the local peasantry who, reasonably enough, concluded that the scaly, green monster was a dragon.

At the same time at which the good folke of Wormingford were vexed thus sorely, it so happened that a Knight errant by the name of Sir George Marney of Layer de la Haye, happened to be traversing through the countryside, and was beseeched by the good people to aid them against this unholy menace. The noble Knight at once agreed, and having pledged the valour of his heart and strength of his arm in defense of the village, commenced mortal combat with the monstrous serpent.

St George and the . . . Crocodile?

Pitched battle was engaged betwixt the stalwart Knight, clad in bright armor with trusty lance, and the foul fiend with fangs bared and murder in its bloodshot eyes. Our valiant hero tipped his sturdy lance, and, spurring his worthy steed, charged full-tilt at his foe. There was a furious clash!—A horses bray!—A hellish howl from the demon!—And Lo!—the seed of the woman had crushed the serpents head!

Elated by victory, our chivalrous Knight cantered round the dragon, lying now quite dead in dust and blood, and lifted the visor of his helmet to wipe the sweat from his noble brow. The peasants thronged their worthy deliverer with shouts of adoration and gratitude. But our hero snapped his visor shut, and, plying his golden spurs to the flanks of his gallant mount, soon disappeared into the rugged countryside.

The tale which I have related is no work of fiction—Faith! It is history, true and sure! Indeed, the town of Wormingford boasts of the tale to this day, even claiming the origin of the St. George mythology, though their story is about thirteen hundred years too late. 

My friends, have not some all the luck in this world? What shouldst thou give?—troth—I wouldst give every penny that ever I earned—to have been a Knight wandering through the countryside when a village needed rescuing from a stray crocodile! It is true, one can purchase Alligator tags for $25 in Louisiana. But no one will hail you as hero and deliverer for bagging one with a shotgun. Give me a steed, a lance, and an escaped carnivorous amphibian in Renaissance Europe, and I, too, shall be a hero sung by the wandering minstrels and bards! But Alas! Deeds of heroism, of song and legend, are more difficult to come by in this age of modernity.

So here’s a toast to Sir George Marney of Layer de la Haye! Raise a glass with me, noble gentlemen, to the heroes who were in the right place at the right time. Hear! Hear!

Some people have all the luck . . .