A Tale of Bats, Goats, Cubs & Holy Cows

My infatuation began in late spring 1984. As trees budded and flowers bloomed and birds sang sweetly above, I was swept away. Surely the Windy Cityscape didn’t hurt: balmy breezes and warm sunshine, climbing ivy and fresh-mown grass. (And probably some peanuts and Cracker Jack too.) I was a college freshman, up to my neck in lecture notes, textbooks, and study guides. But I found myself abandoning my stuffy library buddies for “fresher, greener pastures” with increasing frequency. I hopped the “L” train from Evanston every chance I got.

By September, my crush had developed into a full-blown romance. I was completely and irreversibly smitten. And to this day, my heartfelt devotion is undeterred, though I married another.  I know it seems duplicitous. However, my incredible man has not only acknowledged my unabashed affection; he has given his blessing. And occasionally, box seats. Like John Mayer, my guy gets it: you love who you love.

And I love the Cubs.

Baseball is America’s pasttime. And the Cubs are, I daresay, America’s team.

My team.  

All decked out in red, white, and Cubbie blue.

Sure we have a history of losing, choking, sputtering, faltering… failure. Sure there’s a curse. Sure tickets are scarce. And pricey. And yes, we are mercilessly mocked, jeered, teased and taunted by MLB fans everywhere. But… once you fall for the Cubs, you remain spellbound for a lifetime. (Or, in my case, 32 years and counting.)

Even the naysayers and Cardinals fans (and at least a handful of southsiders) will tell you: this ball club is iconic. Its ballpark is historic. And the left-field bleachers are nothing short of… epic. Anyone who’s been fortunate enough to view a game from that section of the stadium wears the name proudly:

Wrigley Field Bleacher Bum. (Still waiting for Common or Kanye to write and record a “Bum Rap.”)

I’ve heard all the Cubs jokes and digs. Chicago scrubs. Loveable losers. Basement dwellers.

What is the acronym for CUBS? Completely Useless By September. What’s the difference between a dirty floor and the Chicago Cubs? Nothing…  Both always get swept. What do you call 25 millionaires watching the World Series on tv? The Chicago Cubs.

And, yes, I’ve repeated all the desperately hopeful refrains:

“It’s early. Plenty of baseball left to be played.”

“Just brushin’ off the infield dirt.”

“Let’s play two!”

And the motto of every Cubs fan for the past century or so:

“Wait ’til next year!”

Even my own kids have given me grief about raising them as Cubs fans. Cruel and unusual punishment, they say. How could we subject them to the ongoing anguish and agony of defeat, year after year? It’s a life of torture, they tell me. But none of them have wavered, either. They too are among the Wrigley Field faithful. And they remain steadfast, immovable, and true-Cubbie-blue. (My job is done here.)

A couple years ago, I saw a fan wearing a Cubs t-shirt emblazoned with these words:

JUST ONE BEFORE I DIE.

I almost LOL’d… and then went straight to the interweb to procure one. No luck. (I’m sure there’s a metaphor here somewhere.) Apparently, many of us shared the same sentiment. Though some were unable to score the apparel to prove it. (Yet another metaphor… I’m on a roll.)

Former Cubs player and announcer Steve Stone put it this way: “People always come up and ask me if the Cubs are going to win in their lifetime, and I always give them the same answer: How long are you planning on living?”

I’ve watched and waited and cheered and hoped for more than three decades. Still no trip to the Series. (We did take a family trip to spring training, though. A consolation prize of sorts.)

But, lo and behold, here we are. Right smack in the middle of the NLDS, trying to get past the Dodgers and maybe… just maybe… make an appearance in the 2016 World Series. Well, whaddya know?

I’m giddy with excitement and wracked with nerves, all at once. I’ve been staying up way past my bedtime, wearing my jersey, wringing my hands, and yelling at the home plate ump (and occasionally at #9: Less swag, more speed, my man. “RUN, Forrest!”) I fly the W after every win. And hum a little Taylor Swift after a tough loss. I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake… shake it off, shake it off. (And switch my socks. Just in case.)

As we head back to Wrigley to (hopefully, pretty please, JUST ONCE BEFORE I DIE) finish off the Dodgers and win the division title, I thought I would offer a little alphabetic ode to my boys in blue:

A: Ace. Arrieta. Addi. Awesome.

B: Bleachers. Buckner. Bartman. Billy goat. 

C: Curve. Curse. Cubby Bear Lounge. 

D: Dexter. Diamond. Dugout. Division series.

E: Elia. Epstein. Ernie (Mr. Cub to you). 

F: Fastball. Flyout. Fielder’s choice. Friendly confines.

G: Greatest fans. Grand slams. Grandpa Rossy. (He ain’t afraid of no GOAT!)

H: Home team. Homerun. Harry Caray. Holy Cow!

I: Innings. Infield. Ivy. Idyllic.     

J: Jam. Jack. Junk. Jorge. Javy (as in Baez, as in BOOM!)

K: Kris. Kyle. Keepers. 

L: Lackey. Lester. Light’s out. Let’s go!!!

M: Maddon. Miggy. Murphys. Mojo.

N: Northsiders. National league. Nineteen-o-eight.

O: October… and we’re still playin’, baby.

P: Pat (Hughes). Postseason. Pickoff. Putout. Play ball!

Q: Quest for a division title. (And history.)

R: Ronnie. Ryno. Rizzo.

S: Sinker. Slider. Splitter. Screwball. Seventh-inning stretch. Sweet-home-Chicago.  

T: Tag. Triple. Turn two. Try (not to suck).

U: Umpire. Up and in. Ugh.

V: Vines. Visitors. Velocity. Vienna beef. 

W: W. Wrigley. Walkoff. World-freakin’-series! 

X: Ex-lovable losers, thankyouverymuch.

Y: Yogi (Berra. I know he didn’t play for, manage, or coach the Cubs. But he’s a baseball legend, incredibly quotable, and his name starts with a “Y” so gimme a break.)

Z: Zany coach. Zestful players. Zobrist. Zingers. ZEAL!

Happy Friday, baseball fans! And wishes for a winning weekend in the Windy City!

Root-root-rooting for the home team… GO CUBS GO!

Wendy

P.S. Love is the most important thing in the world. But baseball is pretty good, too. (Yogi Berra)

 

 

Fill-in-the-Blank Test

My dear reader,

All this time I have kept quiet. If you know me, that’s quite a feat. But I haven’t taken the bait. Any of it. (And believe me, there’s been plenty. Big, fat, squirmy worms and tempting soundbites dangling daily in the cesspool of modern media.) And up until this point, I’ve chosen not to bite. I’ve been Nike’s antihero:

Just Don’t. Do. It.

But there’s an elephant in the room. And his name is Donald. And I have to speak up; otherwise I might step in a steaming pile of pachyderm crap… or be crushed. (There’s also a stubborn mule in here. I’ll get to her later.)

I have watched coverage and considered viewpoints and read posts. Pondered, puzzled, prayed. Typed – red-faced – then deleted, more than a few times. And after months of refraining and restraining, biting my tongue and tempering my responses, I am breaking my self-imposed silence and venturing where I never intended to go. Out from my safe zone of Swiss-modeled neutrality into the raging political firestorm. (Whew… It’s HOT in here.)

Why now? Why not sooner? Frankly, I just didn’t want to go there. So many others were spatting and spitting and spewing. And I didn’t want to be one of them. I wanted to quietly and conscientiously consider my options, cast my ballot, and… well… hold my breath. But after the latest bombshell, I ducked and covered, then quickly came to the realization that… I have a vote and a voice. And there are times, like now, when perhaps I should use that voice. Maybe somebody like me needs to speak up.

To point out some glaring flaws in these people (not to mention this process).

To cry out against all that is unsavory, ungodly, and untoward. And…

To reach out to rational, reasonable, respectful fellow citizens on both sides of the aisle (and to those in the balcony seats too) and appeal to them.

To you.

First, you should know that I have friends who are voting for all four of the “party” candidates, and I respect and cherish every last one of them. My friends. Not the candidates. (On a side note: the political process does not sound, look, or feel at all like a party to me. Parties are supposed to be festive. And fun. And blissfully free of bullies, blowhards, and buzzkills. But that’s just my two cents.)

I have friends who are voting for Hillary. If elected, she’ll become the first female president of the United States (and I must say, a woman commandeering the Oval Office would be pretty. freaking. cool). Yes, she’s tested and tough. Experienced, educated, articulate. (And bonus points: she actually attempts to answer the questions posed during debates.) But her track record has been cagey, careless, and in at least a couple of cases, unconscionable. I believe she lacks forthrightness and uprightness… aka honesty and integrity. (Just for the record, my news sources are not Breitbart or Bill O. My journalism degree compels me to go straight to the AP for fact-checking and/or debunking.) But even if Hillary did possess those deeply desirable and exceedingly rare qualities, she still wouldn’t earn my vote. And here’s why. Because I feel an obligation to vote not only for myself, but for every single child in America who cannot yet vote. My daughter. My nephews. My godchildren. The trio of preschoolers who live across the street. The precious newborn baby of our dear friends. I want my vote to count for them. To make a difference for them. To protect them. Especially the little ones who are the most vulnerable. The hungry, the homeless, the helpless. The disabled and disadvantaged. The unprotected, neglected, and abused. I want my vote to matter for those children.

And the unborn ones.

(Wait. Before you stop reading and dismiss/disparage/delete me entirely and scroll/scan/click something else, please hear me out.)

See, every single adult in our nation gets to make their personal political preferences known with their vote. What issues are most critical to you? Likely, those will dictate your vote. You want to see our next president push for economic growth or pull back our troops? Re-prioritize or preserve the make-up of the Supreme Court? Tighten gun laws or protect 2nd amendment rights? Retain or repeal Obamacare? Broaden renewable energy initiatives? Build a pipeline or build a wall? Privatize social security or legalize marijuana? Guess what? You get a say, because you have a vote. “We the people” (registered voters, ages 18 and up) get to choose the next Mr. President… or Ms.

But the children? They don’t get a vote. They just trust… us. Their parents and grandparents, neighbors, teachers, coaches, youth leaders and lifeguards, pediatricians and piano instructors and playground supervisors. It’s our job as “the grownups” to vote with them in mind.

And then there are the littlest ones… the precious premies. And the pre-born. In-utero or “evacuated,” it’s not simply tissue or an embryonic blob.  It’s a human being. Tiny, tender, but truly an individual. With his or her own distinct DNA. Made in God’s image.  And growing and learning, even very early on. Who are their advocates? We are… or ought to be. Every single one of us. Let’s do right by them, for heaven’s sake. They are voiceless and utterly defenseless, and easy access to “safe, legal abortion” is obliterating so many. I cannot just turn a blind eye to their plight. You may not agree with me on this. And I know there are vehement arguments about personal freedom and victims’ rights (which I hope and pray I would never, ever dismiss) and anatomy/physiology that impact people’s passionate positions on this legal/moral/political issue. Please hear me loud and clear: I respect you, your body, and your rights. But along with the embarassment of riches we enjoy in this nation (as beneficiaries of so many rights and freedoms) comes responsibility. Social responsibility… and yes, sexual responsibility.

I could go on and on about gestational development and abortion alternatives and tell you beautiful stories of birth moms who selflessly (and heroically) chose adoptive families for their children. I could also share heartbreaking details from friends who chose to terminate their pregnancies and suffer lingering regrets… or, in some cases, mental health crises in the aftermath. But I doubt they would influence your position. Or change your vote. I’m simply trying to avoid any misunderstanding about mine.

I have friends who intend to vote for Trump.  I don’t judge them either. I believe that they believe in what they are doing and why. That they are voting in accord with deeply-held convictions. That they are pursuing what they ought: ensuring that the Constitution is carefully guarded by the Supreme Court for decades to come and defending the right to life for those who haven’t yet arrived at their Birth Day. I acknowledge and respect their mission; I just can’t embrace their man.

Whether he has promised to protect religious liberties or grow the economy or nominate strict constructionists to our highest court is moot. He simply doesn’t represent the values that I hold most dear. And, sadly, he has yet to consistently demonstrate many of the things most of us learned in kindergarten: be kind, play fair, no name-calling or interrupting or insults. (Oh, and one more key kindergarten lesson: keep your hands to yourself.)

I have friends (and probably a kid or two) who are voting for the Johnson-Weld ticket. And while they both seem sane and their policy positions relatively straightforward, they won’t win my vote. It’s not the embarrassing “Aleppo moment” or the cannabis crusade that cost it. Again, it’s that pesky pro-life perspective that I can’t – won’t – shake. (BTW, I’m pro-every-life. Black. White. And every beautiful skin tone between. Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, atheist. PHDs and high school dropouts. Single, married, widowed… and “consciously uncoupled.” Incapacitated. Incarcerated. Law enforcers and tax preparers and street performers. Vegans and pescatarians and carnivores. Activists and optimists and pessimists and pacifists. Rich and poor. Old… and very, very, very young.) Sorry, Gary. You seem like a pretty nice guy, but I’m out.

Ditto with Jill Stein. Can’t back her pro-choice platform. And, in all honesty, I’m not sure I actually do know anyone who’s voting for her. (Will my Jill Stein-supporting friends please speak up? Hellooooo? Anyone out there? Buehler… Buehler?)

I’m a devoted fan of Jane Austen. But frankly, I’m growing weary of pride and prejudice (my own and others’) and political upchuck. In this election, I’m desperately seeking sense and sensibilities… and a little serenity. I want to vote my conscience, uphold my convictions, use my critical thinking skills… and let God sort it all out. I’d like to think that He would usher into the Oval Office a president who (at least somewhat) reflected the qualities of His own Son. But let’s not forget that His Son wasn’t appointed or elected or crowned. He was crucified. They – we – killed Him: the One who possessed the most sought-after qualities of any candidate. Ever.

Jesus was not afraid to speak the no-holds-barred, bold truth.

Not afraid to call out the religious hypocrites and welcome in the folks on the fringes.

Never flip-flopping or flinching. Never floundering or failing.

Willing to reach out and pour out. Willing to befriend, feed, help, and heal. Willing to protect and provide for all. Including the sick, the poor, the hungry, the hurting. Without regard to where they came from or what they looked like or how they identified. Because once they got to know Him and soak up His love and mercy… they found their identity. As His.  (Yes, I know that caring for the orphans and widows and helpless and hopeless is the Church’s job, ultimately. And we’d better get after it, all hands on deck. ‘Cause there’s plenty to do. But it’s also our job to engage politically. Shouldn’t our votes match our mission?)

As of today, here’s my Official Polling Place Plan. (Between now and November 8, I will continue to pray for wisdom. And if God redirects, I’ll let you know.)

I’m not going to check any of the boxes.                  

Instead, I’m going to fill in the blank.  Yes, you read that right. I’m going to WRITE IN the name of my candidate.

The governor from my neighboring state who admirably, and in my opinion heroically, chose not to “go low.” He remained steadfastly above the fray, diligently doing the job and conveying his message and mission. Intentionally avoiding the mud-slinging and slime and slander. Strong track record and clear, constructive policies. Good ideas and good sense. Good man. He got my vote in the primary… and he’ll get it again. My very first write-in candidate.

I was dreading… dreading… the upcoming election. And as soon as I came to this decision, I felt relief.

Peace.  

That is why I won’t choose “the lesser of two evils.” Because I refuse to vote for evil. Flawed, I can accept. We all are. But evil? I’ll pass, thank you very much.

I won’t fill in the bubble or punch the “chad” or check the box of a candidate who won’t lead me/us/the children well. Honestly, humbly, justly. When there’s no clear, good choice, I’ll skip the multiple-choice test… and opt for the fill-in-the-blank.

That’s why our democratic system proffers a line on the ballot to write in a candidate’s name. It’s for times like this. When the “party” names don’t reflect who we are or what we believe or where we hope to go. What if we all voted our conscience, rather than following convention… or affiliation… or pre-affixed labels. What if we all opted out… and wrote in? If we stick together, we just might make an impact. Or, at least, a statement. Let’s stand for something, rather than falling for something. Shall we?

As for me, I will exit the voter’s booth with my conscience clear and my dignity intact. But more importantly, I will exit with the knowledge that one day, I will stand before God. And His opinion is the only one that really matters.

Respectfully,

Wendy

P.S.  More bombshells to come, I’m sure. So by all means, take cover. But don’t cower and whimper and whine. And please, please, please don’t stay home on November 8. Or shoot back. (Remember what Honest Abe said? “The ballot is stronger than the bullet.”)

Pray boldly.

Vote bravely.

Think outside the box.

Fill in the blank.

And let freedom ring.

 

A Smile Wide

My dear reader,

Occasionally (spotted on the bumper of a pristine Prius or a 1972 VW bus) I see a sticker that implores: Think globally. Act locally. You’ve seen those, right? Well, today I’m going to help you accomplish the first mission in two seconds flat.  All you need to do is this:

🙂

Today is World Smile Day. And since it falls on a Friday, we already have plenty of reason to oblige, don’t you think?

Emojis notwithstanding, a genuine smile is one of the natural wonders of the world. It is both utterly unique and profoundly universal.  It’s comforting, captivating, convincing, and contagious.  A warm smile can truly “light up a room” or “dazzle a crowd” all by itself. It’s a mood-booster and day-brightener. It’s a goodwill offering and a conflict deterrent. On some faces, it’s an everyday event. On others, a rare gift. But either way, it almost always gets great reviews… and great returns.

I am fascinated by the science of smiles. The neurology. The psychology. The endocrinology. All of the incredible -ologies. The way smiles entice and engage others. How they animate our faces and articulate our feelings and elevate our endorphins. And how they almost always elicit smiles in return. The smile is surely the brightest and best feature of every human being who has ever lived. Why?

Because smiles connect us.

Babies typically start smiling when they’re about five or six weeks old. Conveniently, this is just about the time that their parents have become so sleep-deprived, depleted, and desperate that they might be tempted to google “safe drop” locations in their zip code. But thankfully, just before that happens, a miraculous physiological force illuminates a baby’s sweet smile… and all thoughts of great escapes and night nannies vanish. Wow, God, You are BRILLIANT! Parents gaze at those perfect lips and soak up those luscious smiles and – in the words of the inimitable Louis Armstrong – they think to themselves, “What a wonderful world.”

One little smile… and lifelong bonding (and photo sharing) begins.

Smiles garner attention, sell products, win friends. They are capable of gratifying, unifying, consoling, compelling, and crossing cultural barriers. Most smiles are everyday, ordinary “greetings” from one person to another, face to face. Some smiles, though, are captured in memories or on film… and convey something truly extraordinary. The smile of a gold-medal winner. A bride on her wedding day. A cancer survivor. A valedictorian. A movie star. A soldier returning home. A kid on Christmas morning.

Some smiles are recognized worldwide: Julia Roberts and JFK. Elvis and Oprah. The POTUS and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. (Not even kidding. Will Smith’s smile beams everywhere from Sweden to Switzerland to South Korea.) They’re all, without a doubt, mega-watt, million-dollar (or in Oprah’s case, billion-dollar) smiles.

Other smiles are simply iconic. Princess Diana. Marilyn Monroe. And perhaps the most famous of all…

Mona Lisa.

Smiles enthrall painters and sculptors, enchant photographers and filmmakers… and inspire lyricists and musicians in every genre in every generation. Think of the countless crooners who have sung the praises of a simple smile. Frank Sinatra, Lily Allen, Hall and Oates, Tim McGraw, Drake, Doris Day, Justin Bieber, Barry Manilow, Nat King Cole, and Uncle Kraker, to name a few. And I don’t disagree with their sentiments. When I see a joyful smile on the face of someone I adore, it warms my whole heart. Mine and James Taylor’s too, apparently:

“Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself… because I love you. Yes I do.”

Back at ya, JT.

But let’s be honest. Some days, smiles are in short supply. Bad weather, bad reviews, bad people, bad news… those can suck the smiles right out of us. And all we’ve got left are downcast faces with forlorn frowns. Sometimes the world just feels too harsh or too heavy to lift those facial muscles… one… iota. I get it. The hurricanes and hate crimes and heartbreak, they take a toll. But that’s why, when I’m able to coax a smile from a pouting preschooler or a dejected friend or a grumpy clerk or a surly teen or a toddler with a skinned knee and a tear-streaked face, I’m tickled pink. I feel absolutely, positively grand. (And maybe a teensy smug.) That reluctant smile is both my goal… and my reward. Boom.

Me? I’m an easy target. If you give me a smile, you’re pretty much guaranteed one in return. Unless you’re my kid, and you’re cheesin’ hard to get outta trouble. Then, not so much. (I’ve perfected a steely glare, complete with clenched jaw and pursed lips for such occasions.) But overall, I’m pretty generous with my smiles. I’ll offer one – unsolicited – to almost anyone, anytime. And I have the laugh lines to prove it. Smiles are immune-boosting, stress-relieving, friendly, and free. And they make us all… beautiful.

Besides…

I just like to smile. Smiling’s my favorite.

Your “Buddy,”

Wendy

P.S. Smile and the world smiles with you. Especially today. 😉