The city is on fire, but that isn’t a bad thing. Chicago is good at burning because it’s great at rising from the ashes. Sure, ashes can be the start of an arid desert, plagued by a 108 year long drought; however, the people living in such environments appreciate the rain more than anywhere else. And besides, not all fires destroy. Ceremonial bonfires dot the streets on Addison, police standing at a cautious distance while celebrating frenzied fans leap around the flames. Smashing barstools, they fuel the fires into high rising columns which seem to spit stars into the sky.
Thru the apartment window it’s easy to imagine fantastical futures:
Sitting on a throne of bones the king of Wrigley calls for his son. Coors knights escort the young Prince into the hallowed dugout. There he is greeted by the royal sorcerer Sianis Goat the Third. The Prince knows him as nothing more than a peddler of cheap hallucinogens, but the old snake oil dealer is well connected, so the Prince bows respectfully as Sianis Goat ushers him into the bowels of the palace.
He finds his father seated in darkness, regarding the first crown, a battered assembly of beer cans torn apart and woven together. The label, still clear on the front, is the progenitor of the royal seal, yet this relic bears only a passing resemblance to the contemporary coat of arms. And though Pabst Blue Ribbon lies at the root of all aristocratic heraldry, there is something divine about the first. Perhaps it’s merely the young Prince’s reverent imagination, but it does seem to shine in the darkness.
Seeing the boy his father beckons him closer. His leather armor almost seems to groan, doing what the old stoic will not: confess his feelings; his fatigue. When the Prince is close enough his father says:
“Legends have a way of disposing of facts. You know the stories about your grandfather, but it’s time you knew the truth. Just as my father told me, I’m about to tell you. Sit.”
Perhaps it won’t be quite as epic as all that, though, why would anyone want anything less? The city devolving into some kind of Mad Max, Game of Thrones hybrid following the recent Cubs victory – there is a point fantasy borders on all too possible. Watching revelers dance naked through the Wrigleyville Taco Bell shouting, “There is a God!” it seems more than likely the fantastical is possible. The chanting mobs decked out in blue, marching to other parts of the city, torch GIFs on their smartphones, singing Steve Goodman’s “Go Cubs Go.” They remind me of Scottish soldiers marching against the odds. Decades of defeat haven’t withered their resolve one iota; and tonight is proof they could hold victory in their hands – they were never fools for believing.
Celebratory gunshots mingle with the fireworks. Following the sound of a Magnum revolver to the alley, I spy my neighbor drunkenly firing into the ground. At least she’s got the good sense not to shoot the sky. Those bullets come back to Earth eventually, still lethal. Or maybe she’s too drunk to aim straight. Either way I can’t help imagining:
She downs another vodka. These aren’t shots in the traditional sense. These are artillery shells, numbing her frayed nerves. Creeping into the tenth inning she hears the ghost of her grandfather muttering prayers in Latin. He used to tell her stories about Joe Tinker, Frank Chance, and Johnny Evers winning back in 1907-08. He died long ago, and her years as a fan have been nothing but disappointment alongside the crushing horror of coming close enough to trip, face plant inches from the finishing line.
Slugging back another she misses the final pitch. The crack of a hit almost causes her to choke. Her heart stops beating as Kris Bryant throws to Rizzo, sealing the final out. She jumps up, hands touching the ceiling, and when she turns she can see dziadek’s ghost. Tears in both their eyes, she watches him slowly fade away, finally able to peacefully move on. As such, it’s a bittersweet win for her.
She sees me, and waves with the gun in hand. I smile, and wave back. It’s best to be neighborly with an armed person.
Back in the living room I turn off the TV. There’s nothing else to see tonight. For all who witnessed it this is the birth of a legend. There are no more rarer moments than this. Yet, I can’t say I watched it all. I found the fans more intriguing than the game. Peeking in on live streams from taverns, on Facebook, and even watching out the window, it’s been an education. There’s something truly unique about watching what amounts to eyes silently glued to screens anxiously anticipating something no one thought possible. Sure, they’ve always said next year… next year… next year… until enough decades have gone by next year is a way of saying never. However, that glorious next year is here. It can happen. The optimistic promise of tomorrow can be fulfilled. It’s just a matter of holding on long enough.
Thru the apartment window it’s easy to imagine fantastical futures:
Sitting on a throne of bones the king of Wrigley calls for his son. Coors knights escort the young Prince into the hallowed dugout. There he is greeted by the royal sorcerer Sianis Goat the Third. The Prince knows him as nothing more than a peddler of cheap hallucinogens, but the old snake oil dealer is well connected, so the Prince bows respectfully as Sianis Goat ushers him into the bowels of the palace.
He finds his father seated in darkness, regarding the first crown, a battered assembly of beer cans torn apart and woven together. The label, still clear on the front, is the progenitor of the royal seal, yet this relic bears only a passing resemblance to the contemporary coat of arms. And though Pabst Blue Ribbon lies at the root of all aristocratic heraldry, there is something divine about the first. Perhaps it’s merely the young Prince’s reverent imagination, but it does seem to shine in the darkness.
Seeing the boy his father beckons him closer. His leather armor almost seems to groan, doing what the old stoic will not: confess his feelings; his fatigue. When the Prince is close enough his father says:
“Legends have a way of disposing of facts. You know the stories about your grandfather, but it’s time you knew the truth. Just as my father told me, I’m about to tell you. Sit.”
Perhaps it won’t be quite as epic as all that, though, why would anyone want anything less? The city devolving into some kind of Mad Max, Game of Thrones hybrid following the recent Cubs victory – there is a point fantasy borders on all too possible. Watching revelers dance naked through the Wrigleyville Taco Bell shouting, “There is a God!” it seems more than likely the fantastical is possible. The chanting mobs decked out in blue, marching to other parts of the city, torch GIFs on their smartphones, singing Steve Goodman’s “Go Cubs Go.” They remind me of Scottish soldiers marching against the odds. Decades of defeat haven’t withered their resolve one iota; and tonight is proof they could hold victory in their hands – they were never fools for believing.
Celebratory gunshots mingle with the fireworks. Following the sound of a Magnum revolver to the alley, I spy my neighbor drunkenly firing into the ground. At least she’s got the good sense not to shoot the sky. Those bullets come back to Earth eventually, still lethal. Or maybe she’s too drunk to aim straight. Either way I can’t help imagining:
She downs another vodka. These aren’t shots in the traditional sense. These are artillery shells, numbing her frayed nerves. Creeping into the tenth inning she hears the ghost of her grandfather muttering prayers in Latin. He used to tell her stories about Joe Tinker, Frank Chance, and Johnny Evers winning back in 1907-08. He died long ago, and her years as a fan have been nothing but disappointment alongside the crushing horror of coming close enough to trip, face plant inches from the finishing line.
Slugging back another she misses the final pitch. The crack of a hit almost causes her to choke. Her heart stops beating as Kris Bryant throws to Rizzo, sealing the final out. She jumps up, hands touching the ceiling, and when she turns she can see dziadek’s ghost. Tears in both their eyes, she watches him slowly fade away, finally able to peacefully move on. As such, it’s a bittersweet win for her.
She sees me, and waves with the gun in hand. I smile, and wave back. It’s best to be neighborly with an armed person.
Back in the living room I turn off the TV. There’s nothing else to see tonight. For all who witnessed it this is the birth of a legend. There are no more rarer moments than this. Yet, I can’t say I watched it all. I found the fans more intriguing than the game. Peeking in on live streams from taverns, on Facebook, and even watching out the window, it’s been an education. There’s something truly unique about watching what amounts to eyes silently glued to screens anxiously anticipating something no one thought possible. Sure, they’ve always said next year… next year… next year… until enough decades have gone by next year is a way of saying never. However, that glorious next year is here. It can happen. The optimistic promise of tomorrow can be fulfilled. It’s just a matter of holding on long enough.
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