The Cubs, Steve Goodman, and hope

Pitchers and catchers have reported.

I do a magazine rack survey every spring for my Cubs email group, The Cubhouse, of the baseball annuals' opinions of our team's prospects.

I am not optimistic this year. There is enough talent on the team to go far- if everybody stays healthy all season, and performs up to potential. But alas, such things don't happen to the Cubs- and even when the Cubs are loaded, other teams usually get much more done with much less.

They're down on me in the group for my pessimism. But after nearly half a century of following the Cubs, I think I'm entitled.

Thus far, I had come up with one prediction that the Cubs would finish fourth, one that they would finish third, and one that they would finish second. But today I came across Lindy's- which, through a process of logic unknown to me, picked the Cubs not only to beat out the Cardinals and win the NL Central, but to go on to win the World Series.

Any of these predictions could easily come true. For my part, I'm looking at third, or maybe second. But neither fourth nor first is rationally out of the question. As to the World Series, I'll believe it when I see it.

Today in the Group somebody happened to mention a great Cubs fan, whose dying bequest (little did we know at the time) to his favorite team was a ballad entitled- appropriately enough- A Dying Cub Fan's Last Request. Just before he himself departed for the ivy covered walls of the Friendly Confines in the Sky, he penned the lines:

By the shores of old Lake Michigan
Where the "hawk wind" blows so cold
An old Cub fan lay dying
In his midnight hour that tolled.
Round his bed, his friends had all gathered;
They knew his time was short
And on his head they put this bright blue cap
From his all-time favorite sport.
He told them, "Its late and its getting dark in here,
And I know its time to go.
But before I leave the line-up, boys,
There's just one thing I'd like to know:

"Do they still play the blues in Chicago
When baseball season rolls around;
When the snow melts away,
Do the Cubbies still play
In their ivy-covered burial ground?
When I was a boy they were my pride and joy,
But now they only bring fatigue
To the home of the brave
The land of the free
And the doormat of the National League."

Told his friends "You know the law of averages says:
Anything will happen that can"
That's what it says- but the last time the Cubs won a National League pennant
Was the year we dropped the bomb on Japan!
The Cubs made me a criminal-
Sent me down a wayward path;
They stole my youth from me
(that's the truth)
I'd forsake my teachers
To go sit in the bleachers
In flagrant truancy.

"And then one thing led to another,
and soon I'd discovered alcohol, gambling, dope;
football, hockey, lacrosse, tennis- but what do you expect,
When you raise up a young boy's hopes
And then just crush 'em like so many paper beer cups,

Year, after year, after year,
after year, after year, after year, after year, after year,
'Til those hopes are just so much popcorn
for the pigeons beneath the 'L' tracks to eat."
He said, "You know I'll never see Wrigley Field, anymore,
Before my eternal rest,
So if you have your pencils and your score cards ready,
and I'll read you my last request:"
He said, "Give me a double header funeral in Wrigley Field
On some sunny weekend day (no lights),
Have the organ play the national anthem
and then a little 'na, na, na, na, hey hey, hey, goodbye;'
Make six bullpen pitchers, carry my coffin,
and six ground keepers clear my path
Have the umpires bark me out at every base
In all their holy wrath.
Its a beautiful day for a funeral; Hey, Ernie. lets play two!
Somebody go get Jack Brickhouse to come back,
and conduct just one more interview.
Have the Cubbies run right out into the middle of the field,
Have Keith Moreland drop a routine fly,
Give everybody two bags of peanuts and a frosty malt
And I'll be ready to die.

Build a big fire on home plate out of your Louisville Sluggers baseball bats,
And toss my coffin in;
Let my ashes blow in a beautiful snow
From the prevailing 30 mile an hour southwest wind.
When my last remains go flying over the left-field wall
Will bid the bleacher bums adíeu
And I will come to my final resting place, out on Waveland Avenue

The dying man's friends told him to cut it out,
They said stop it that's an awful shame;
He whispered, "Don't Cry, we'll meet by and by near the Heavenly Hall of Fame,"
He said, "I've got season's tickets to watch the Angels now,
So its just what I'm going to do."
He said, "But you, the living, you're stuck here with the Cubs,
So its me that feels sorry for you!"

And he said, "Ahh Play, play that lonesome losers tune,
That's the one I like the best!"
And he closed his eyes, and slipped away
What we got is the Dying Cub Fan's Last Request.
And here it is:

Do they still play the blues in Chicago
When baseball season rolls around.
When the snow melts away,
Do the Cubbies still play
In their ivy-covered burial ground?
When I was a boy they were my pride and joy
But now they only bring fatigue,
To the home of the brave
The land of the free
And the doormat of the National League.

The rational part of me expects the blues to be played again this summer. But the boy in me still hopes.