It's been asked by a fair number of sports media types, would it not actually be better if the Cubs never won? I've always immediately rejected the idea. I'm starting to think I never gave the idea as much consideration as it perhaps deserved.
Now, let me start by clearly stating that I don't think there's any universal experience. I don't, or at least should not, expect a great number of people to feel the same way I do about this, or really anything else. That being understood, I'll always err on the side of victory over defeat; fleeting joy over prolonged suffering. I'm glad the Cubs won the World Series.
When I've heard it questioned, whether we should want the Cubs to finally win, it's always been presented as a case of shared identity. Is the stigma of lovable losers ingrained? We, as Cubs fans, can immediately relate to one another, even through multiple generations, with this shared experience of mediocrity and suffering that's remained remarkably constant for several decades. If we lose that bond, that one thing that connects us all, will we also lose the intimacy that makes Cubs fandom so special?
I've been very fortunate to experience live at Wrigley Field a number of memorable moments and games. I've also been there to experience many of the lows, when the team has been so shitty the atmosphere resembles a bar for 20-something trust fund Big-10 grads. Where a baseball game just happens to be part of the background. To me, there's nothing like the experience of an excited Wrigley Field. The shared love of this one thing, a thing that I can fundamentally understand, loosens my anxieties. Even as a cynic you can't help but be moved by 40,000 people singing together, sharing pure joy. I've hugged complete strangers. In the last week we've witnessed thousands of people writing the names of deceased loved ones, who never experienced this in their lifetime, in chalk on the brick walls outside Wrigley. Five million people crowded the city to celebrate together, carrying with them the memories of mothers and fathers, and their mothers and fathers too, who all shared a love of the Chicago Cubs. There will be no problem transitioning to a shared identity of success: a new experience of being winners. It will be different, but I'm confident nothing will be lost.
For me, though, the effect has been one I never anticipated. The Cubs have always played such a huge part in my life. I was genuinely moved by their victory in the NLCS and expected even greater emotion if they were to win the whole thing. The Cubs have been part of my personal identity, with the team's struggles and frustrations often mirroring my own. To me, the World Series represented some futuristic end-point: a resolution through redemption. I spent 20 years imagining the feeling of this team winning a World Series. I've cried at the end of baseball movies like "Major League" just imagining the emotion of this one day being the Cubs. The emotion of this one day being my reality. I never went so far as imagining what exactly in the world I expected would be different if the Cubs finally did win. I mostly just allowed myself to be swept away in the dreams of a post-World Series utopia.
Well, the morning after the Cubs won the series felt a lot like every other morning. Despite the team's achievement, every other prospective struggle remained. In the midst of the greatest victory in my sports world, I almost felt an even heavier weight of loss. As if an offer of hope had been exhausted. There was absolutely a surface joy but it felt in many ways performative; there to meet an expectation as much as the genuine feeling. This was something I wanted so deeply that I had allowed myself to subconsciously build it into an event of personal salvation. Some time back, I joked with a close friend that I check my email multiple times per day, despite never expecting any particular message of significance. I suggested to him the email I'm really awaiting is the one that reads, "You can stop worrying, Ryan. Everything is taken care of, forever until the end." I had built the Cubs reaching the pinnacle of baseball success into embodying the relief of that email. It could never deliver on that promise.
I have enjoyed watching other people experience this and share their elation. The pictures and the stories have been wonderful. Personally, it's been strange, though. At times I've felt like I was experiencing all of this behind a glass wall. With baseball being something that's helped me feel a greater connection with people, I'd imagined this being the ultimate case. Instead, it's almost had the opposite effect. The combination of my own personal feelings with the physical distance between myself and many of the people I had always imagined sharing this moment with highlighted a feeling of isolation. Where baseball had often helped make feel part of a community, in these past few days, it's left me feeling very alone.
To be clear; I wouldn't trade this World Series for anything. These are my issues. They may not be completely unique, but I recognize they're abnormal and shouldn't curb the celebration in any way.
To see the amount of happiness it's brought to so many people has been really incredible. At a time where there's so much dissension, to see anything bring tens of millions of people from all different backgrounds together is truly special. The thought of making small talk with strangers normally makes my brain melt, but these couple weeks, seeing people light up upon recognizing the Cubs hat and shirts I've worn basically every day for decades, and asking me about the team has actually been a lot of fun despite my awkwardness. Having people I love, who I know wouldn't otherwise give a shit about a baseball game, watch these games and share this experience with me, because they know it's something I love, has meant more to me than they'll ever know. That's what I'm choosing to take from this. A reminder there are people who love me, and were swept up in this more because of how they felt about me than how they felt about a baseball team. I know I've felt the same thinking about friends and family and what this meant to them. I know every one of the five million people who showed up to celebrate this historic moment had someone who felt that way about them and they've felt the same towards others. That's what all of this represents.
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