I love the Chicago Cubs. I have always loved the Chicago Cubs. Every summer, I take my sons to a game at Wrigley where they make fun of me for loving the Chicago Cubs.
And every summer the Cubs break my heart—year after year after year.
When I watch some other team lift the World Series Trophy, I promise to cheer for another team. Any other team. Except, the White Sox.
I hide my Cubs gear, and I put away all my memorabilia.
Then, in the winter, it starts.
I start to miss baseball. I start to look at free agent signings. I sneak glances at the Baseball section on the Bleacher Report. I look, then I quickly click away. I follow the team, but furtively. It's like baseball porn.
I'm ashamed. I feel like I'm doing something wrong.
And then pitchers and catchers report. And I start to follow the Cubs, and my hate for them melts like the snow.
And in the fall, they break my heart again.
Not this year.
This year, I've resigned myself to another season without a title. Here's why.
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