The Toy

This morning, I had an epiphany. You know, one of those sudden ideas where the world and its meaning becomes infinitely clearer. I am a toy, a pawn, something that is worth nothing more than amusement to someone or something. I am an object that the Fates seem intent on using as a means to teach others.

How and when did I come to this sudden realization of my life? At breakfast, as I was looking through the sports page while eating my high fiber toast and low cholesterol eggs. Life became infinitely more succinct when I looked at the National League Central Standings. The Cubs are nine (9) games out of first place, and seven (7) games from being a wild card. It is almost September, and unless I have time traveled to 1969 and they are the “Miracle Mets”, it is over. Bob Brenly and Len Casper are bemoaning next year already. Once again, my hopes and dreams were elevated with talk of “the best pitching staff” in baseball, with conversations about great hitters and golden glove fielders. I went out and bought a new hat and the MLB television package so I would never miss a game.

And now, as usual, they are foundering. My dreams are shattered like a girl whose prom date does not show up to her door, but goes with another girl to the dance. The pitching has gone down the tubes AGAIN! And the hitters have struggled, the fielding has been awful and decisions made on the field are terrible. I would have been better off getting the Little League TV pass. At least then, there is drama, and the kids are trying their best without egos. I would just have had to listen to the parents whine there.

Who do I blame? Alfonso Soriano with that little hop….Milton Bradley who has trouble keeping track of outs…Fukodome who has trouble swinging while in the batter’s box…Kevin Gregg who has thrown more homerun balls than outs…Larry Rothschild who has once again sent more pitchers to the disabled list than any other pitching coach in baseball…Lou Pinella who can’t make a decision… WHO? Who do I blame…

The Bears are now beginning to play with me as we move to football season. That team finally went out and got what they believe to be a quarterback. They couldn’t coax Bret out into the orange and blue, huh? NO, but I helped fund the NFL package on my kids satellite dish so I could watch every miserable game on Sunday. I am hopeful, yet I know my heart will be broken by midseason.

All of these teams that I adore and live for (including the Illini) are like Lucy, and I am Charlie Brown. “Come on, Don, Kick the ball!” Then I know it will be pulled out from in front of me and I will be left gazing into the heavens as I lay on my back. Like Charlie, I am too trusting, and I still kick at the ball….The Big Dipper is pretty this time of year, you know…

But, who am I going to root for out here in Arizona, the Coyotes? They will soon be gone. The Diamondbacks? Lately, they have been an average Triple A team. The Cardinals? No, sounds too much like that heartbreaker from St. Louis. (Wait, they did start out in Chicago, moved to St.Louis, then to here.) The Suns? Amare, show me the way! The only team worth rooting for out here right now is the Phoenix Mercury. But stories on them are buried on page eight of the sports section of the Arizona Republic. I barely get my the first page…

No, I have always been a Cubs fan, so unless they move to Florida for Spring training like I hear they might, I will remain a Cubs fan. BUT…if they move to Florida, all bets are off.

I will no longer be their toy.

Doughnut