I’m in heaven, I’m in hell . . .
It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it, you’re on the other side . . .
Only ten hours later and I’m once again fully behind our Cubs. One day, one 12-run outburst, coupled with one impending monster 4-game series against our suddenly-relevant rivals, is all it took for the perpetual optimist to bounce back.
Such is the nature of my harmful, suicidal, hopelessly futile love affair with the Chicago Cubs. Until Sept. 30 (at least), they always play again tomorrow. And the next year. And the next year. When they lose, I’m downright suicidal. When they win, the world couldn’t be better.
But guess what? As bad as they’ve played, they’re now virtually tied for first. This recent stretch? Just a swoon! Remember another late-season monster series against the demon birds, in 2003? Thought so. And, honestly, in 2003 the Cubs were as few as three games over .500 on Aug. 31. Hope!
For crying out loud, I’m just as schizoid as this infuriating hot-and-cold franchise. Call me a sadist, call me an optimist, call me a child. No matter what I try, I cannot evolve past this pained tragicomedy of Cubs fandom. I can’t help it, I can’t change.
I’m not an addict, maybe that’s a lie.
