The Cubs Win the World Series:
Undoubtedly, there’s a shorter version of this story, but 2016 has been probably the most dramatic year of my life, so I’m going to tell the story that suits that year.
A couple decades of Parkinson’s have taken their toll on my old man. More often than not, he’s in bed when I come over these days. The disease’s progression has been slow and gradual, but the last year has been tough. I winced when the Mets swept the Cubs last year, wondering if we had another shot at the world series together.
The Cubs last won the world series when my grandfather was a little kid. Although it was decades before my dad was born, they were almost vicariously contemporaries from my grandfather’s stories. My grandfather took my dad to a lot of games, but only doubleheaders because they were a better value, “It was a long day of baseball for a 3 year old kid” my dad said. But by the time he was 8 my dad was a fan and he once recalled how hysterical he was when the axle fell out of his dad’s model T on the way to Wrigley causing them to miss two innings, “It was the middle of the depression and my dad was desperately trying to make ends meet, In retrospect I’m sure the two innings were the least of his concerns.” he said.
He was supposed to go to one of the world series games against the Tigers in 1945, but his cousin who had season tickets didn’t get furloughed on time or the like.
Nowadays it’s impossible not to marvel at my folks sheer fortitude and resilience. “It is getting harder” my mom casually noted recently. Pointing out that my dad’s failure on a swallowing test meant that she has to grind up his food, and add a “thickening agent” to his drinks lest he choke on them, “down the wrong pipe” so to speak.
I’ve watched all the world series games with him. If he wants to sit up, he typically does so from his wheelchair and then I usually lay in his hospital bed, he gets tired after a while, and we switch. I’ve gotten accustomed to giving him the play by play as he lays on the bed with his eyes closed. Game seven was different and he stayed sitting upright the whole game only occasionally fading out.
But once the rain delay was announced he’d extended himself as much as he could and I helped him into bed. I snuck him a glass of unadulterated ice water, and we toasted the Cubs on an amazing season and our gratitude for the experience and the time together that we so cherished.
By this time the messages were coming in from all corners of the globe fast and furious and I was delivering scores to Lily, who’s normally uninterested, but recognized how special this night was, and fielding queries from family and friends about how dad was doing. Quarter to eleven, we get a note our Cousin Ben with MD is back in the hospital for a bowel obstruction, but nonetheless wants us to know he’s watching the game and pulling for us too!
Dad lays on the bed, eyes closed “It’s the bottom of the tenth now, two outs, no one on base, Cubs up 8 to 6” I tell him, he nods “Davis singles home Guyer, Cubs up 8 to 7, tying run at first, ” etc.
The final out, I try to speak, but can’t. Maybe he’s already heard it from the tv announcers, maybe he just wanted to hear his son say it. Either way, there’s no reaction. Finally, after three tries, I choke out a barely audible “the Cubs have won the world series, Dad.” and he immediately nods and responds “How about that.” with a smile.
This one was for all the dads, mothers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters who aren’t with us to celebrate tonight!
The goat is officially dead.
