Scott Simon - My Cubs

Thanks for making room for me.

I have this dream. Its the seventh game of the World Series, bottom of the ninth inning, Cubs against the Yankees, and the bases are loaded. The score is 21, Cubs, but the Yanks are threatening. (The Yankees havent been a great team for years, but theyre still satisfying to beat in dreams.) Wrigley Field boils and churns with cheers, claps, and fans on their feet waving W flags.

The green field glows. The ivy on the walls gleams under the bright white light and rustles in the crisp lake wind.

The Cubs are an out away from winning a World Series, against all odds. But theyve run out of pitchers. Fergie Jenkins, Kerry Wood, Jon Lester, Kyle Hendricks, Greg Maddux, and Mordecai Three Finger Brown (an improbable all-era roster of Cubs All-Stars) have all thrown brilliantly. But the bullpen is almost bare. The manager (a gray-haired, knob-nosed fusion of Joe Maddon, Charlie Grimm, and Joe McCarthy) is downcast and flummoxed. Then a light goes on in his eyes.

Its a crazy idea, I know, he tells his coaches. But I got a feeling...

I hear my name crackle over the old tin speakers and echo over the slatted green seats and scuffed concrete stairs. Astonishment rolls through the crowd. The announcers (who sound like Joe Buck and Bob Costas) are stupefied, if not quite speechless. A move no one could have predicted... I take slow, deliberate strides over the electrified green grass and look down to see my arms in white sleeves with Cubby blue stripes.

I reach the mound. Some of the astounded hubbub dies. The catcher (all grit and spit, a grizzled combination of Randy Hundley, Gabby Hartnett, and David Ross) hands me the ball. No need to go over signs, he says through a chaw and a grin. He knows I have just one pitch: a fat, slow dodo of a throw that catches the wind like a candy wrapper, darts, floats, curves, and is preposterously difficult to hit.

My catcher returns to crouch behind home plate. In the broadcast booth, Joe and Bob sputter to explain this stunning turn. Hes a fan. But he knows a lot about the franchise, and hes been practicing his pitch at the gym. And the Cubs must have seen something they liked, because here he is...

The Yankee batter glowers and spits. Hes not Derek, Gehrig, or the Mick, but some malevolent, swearing, gob-spitting, steel-bearded, pinstriped brute. In fact, lets call him the Brute. He tells our catcher, Look what the cat dragged to the mound. Then the Brute glares at me: Time for batting practice, rook.

I take a deep breath. The seats at Wrigley roil with 43,000 Cubs fans who take a sudden deep breath at the same time and fall silent. I look to my right to see the All-Star Cubs spirits of Kris Bryant and Ron Santo dance on their toes at third, and Addison Russell, Ernie Banks, and Joe Tinker at short. I glance to my right: Javy Bez and Ryno Sandberg are on patrol at second base, while Anthony Rizzo and Mark Grace spit and pound the pockets of their gloves at first.

I look in to my catcher. I draw back my arms. I twist slightly to put my power into the psoas muscle (as my yoga trainer has taught me) and bring my right arm through above my shoulder, snapping off the throw with my right hand.

All action seems to slow. I see the ball hang in the night air, snag the lake wind, then float and weave, its red seams whirling. The Brute spits, then swings mightily. But the fat of his bat misses by six inches, and I hear43,000 fans hearhis swing whiff the air like a tree cracking and falling.

Stee-rike!

The Brute steps back to spit and swear. He wipes his huge, grimy hands across his pinstripes and yells out to the mound, Try that again, meat. I got your number now.

My wife, Caroline, our daughters, Elise and Paulina, our dog, and my late mother sit together in grandstand seats along the third base line. All but our dog, Daisy, have their heads lowered in anticipated embarrassment. (Daisy believes.) My mother tells all nearby, Well, you know, darlings, all that writing stuff came later. Pitching for the Cubs is really what hes always wanted to do. I just hope...

I shake off my catchers sign, but its an act; Ill throw the same pitch, and hope he wont see it coming. I rear back, thrust forward, and let the ball go from the tips of my fingers. It bobs and weaves as capriciously as the flight of a firefly. The Brute holds back for an instant, addled and confused, then tries to punch the ball with his bat.

The gesture looks desperate and pathetic. The Brute misses by a foot. The roar of the crowd is so loud I can only read the lips of the ump as he bellows, Stee-rike two!

Up in the booth, Bob and Joe agree as one. Nothing quite like this has ever been seen in baseball history. The Chicago Cubshistorically one of the most beloved, but easily the most cursed, hexed, and jinxed franchise in sports historyare a strike away from winning the World Series and have bet it all on a longtime fan with a freakishly effective pitch. How amazing! How utterly... Cub-like!