Rambling with Alex

 As I hopped out of my mothers van and walked towards the entrance to my elementary school, I felt my stomach drop. I knew what I was about to face that morning, and was not looking forward to it. I didn’t have a brutal math test, nor did I have to give a speech in front of the class. I even completed all my homework due for that day, so I wouldn’t be subject to the wrath of  Mrs. Tuck for missing yet another assignment. What I was about to face was much worse than all those scenarios mixed into one.

As I walked into school I put my head down so I could avoid all eye contact. As I started to unload my book bag, the taunting began.

“Hey Alex, what happened to the White Sox last night?” heckled one voice.

“Sox suck, Sox suck, Sox suck,” another voice sang aloud.

“How about those Cubbies…WOOT WOOT WOOT!” Arthur shouted. I had yet to look up but knew it was Arthur, because he still talked like a girl even though we were in the seventh grade. 

“Whatever, you guys can think what you want” I said with a shoulder shrug. This was going to be a long day.

It was the first week in May, and indeed the White Sox had lost the night prior to a division foe, while the Cubs picked up a victory against an opponent from the National League. Both teams were hovering around the .500 mark at that point.

Only one month into the baseball season, and I had already grown tired of arguing with these fools. I had already tried explaining to them that the baseball season is a marathon of 162 games, not a sprint. Surely, I brought to their attention that the team with the Major League record for most wins in a season still lost 46 games. Winning or losing a game at the beginning of May really wasn’t that big of a deal either way.

They wouldn’t hear it though. The Sox sucked, and the Cubs ruled.

See, I was only one of three White Sox fans in my entire grade and I certainly was the most passionate. The rest were Cubs “fans”.  A handful of them were legitimate Cubs fans. They actually watched baseball, knew the players on the team and had a decent grasp of the game.

The vast majority of them however,  were Cubs “fans”. They didn’t know what a balk was, didn’t know who Ernie Banks was and couldn’t name one-third of the players on the current team.  These were the kids that would taunt me every single time the Sox lost a game and the Cubs won a game. Even if it was only May. Even if the White Sox had a better record.

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I had never been much of a Cubs fan when I was younger. I didn’t have anything against them, I just was always a big White Sox fan. It didn’t help that the first time I went to Wrigley Field when I was eight, I came away from the experience thoroughly dissapointed. My Uncle John (huge Cubs fan) hyped it up so much, I was expecting to see one of the seven wonders of the world. But then I actually went there. The troughs? Gross. The stadium? Dirty. The hot dogs? Sucked. The team? Sucked. They got embarrassed that day by Randy Johnson and Diamondbacks. The Bars? Hey, I was eight.

The Cubs just weren’t for me. But I didn’t hate them yet.

That came a couple of years later when the taunting started from the Cubs “fans” in my grade. Why’d it start? I’m still not sure. In my grade, being a Cubs fan was the popular thing to be for whatever reason. Being a Sox fan wasn’t cool, and I was a big, big Sox fan. 

When I knew I’d get heckled relentlessly and classlessly every time the Cubs won and the Sox lost, that made me hate the Cubs. Like always, I obviously would be rooting for the Sox to win, but now I HAD to root passionately for the Cubs to lose to avoid the torture at school the next day. Rooting against the Cubs became a habit and I legitimately hated to see them win. A Cubs win meant I’d have to listen to a kid that didn’t know how to swing a bat, or a kid that didn’t know what a 6-4-3 double play was, brag to me about how much better the Cubs were than the Sox. A Cubs win also meant I’d have to hear about how great Sammy Sosa was, and how big of an “idiot” I was for suggesting Sosa was on steroids, and that he didn’t accidentally pick up a corked bat.

When the Sox and Cubs actually played each other in the Crosstown Classic, that took things to a whole different level. Since the Crosstown Classic is usually over the summer the shit-talk would come at me on AIM (totally taking away from my purpose of being on AIM which was to flirt with girls). I watched every pitch of these games from the tip of my seat, on edge the whole time. The Sox HAD to win the Crosstown Classic. My dignity for the rest of the year would rely on it. In my grade school days, the White Sox only made the playoffs once. As long as they beat the Cubs four out of six games, I was happy enough with the season.

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I nearly didn’t survive the fall of my eighth grade year. It was 2003 and the Cubs were making a deep run in the playoffs. They won their division, beat the Braves in the NLDS and had the Marlins on the ropes with a 3-1 series lead. The Cubs were one game from the World Series and my classmates took obnoxious to another level. They couldn’t just root for their team, they had to rub The Cubs’ success in my face and remind me the Sox had failed to make the playoffs. The day of game 6, my grade had a “Cubs day” where every one could where Cubs apparrell to class instead of our uniforms. I was one of three people to wear my uniform. The taunting was out of control.

That night, I watched in my basement, biting my nails and pulling my hair out as the Cubs took a 3-0 lead into the 8th inning. I was coming up with excuses to miss school the next day. I’d make myself throw up if I had to.

Then Bartman interfered with a foul ball, Alex Gonzalez made a costly error and the Marlins made them pay. I could go to school the next day.

The Cubs lost game seven as the Marlins went on to win the World Series.

Phew. Close call. I survived eighth grade amongst a bunch of Cubs fans.

Barely.

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When I graduated grade school and moved on high school, I expected my hate for the Cubs to diminish. Barely anyone from my grade school went to the same high school as me and I’d be around a lot more White Sox fans.

However, my hatred for the Cubs continued throughout high school. The damage was done. My grade school classmates made me hate the Cubs. It was ingrained in me. I still rooted against them every game they played and I swore I would be a happy man if they never won a World Series. My intensity during the Crosstown Classic didn’t lessen one bit either. The Sox had to win the series. If they didn’t, the season was a failure in my eyes.

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Lately I have noticed I don’t hate the Cubs anywhere near as much as I used to. I attribute this to a few things. One, the Sox winning the World Series in 2005 pretty much silenced Cubs fans that claimed superiority over the White Sox until they win one of their own. This has put me at ease. Two, Sammy Sosa obviously being exposed as a juiced up cheater. Most knowledgeable Cubs fan admit this, though I’m sure my grade school classmates disagree. However, the biggest reason I don’t hate the Cubs as much is because my wounds from grade school have begun to heal. I don’t keep in touch with many kids from grade school, but mainly the more time that passes, the more I am able to forget about theuneducated Cubs “fans” that cursed my favorite team for so many years.

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On Memorial day, I went to a Cubs/Astros game at Wrigley field, and was able to sit there in apathy for 9 innings. I wasn’t rooting for them to lose.

As I write this, the Crosstown Classic is tied 1-1 with the rubber match to be played tomorrow night. Of course I want the Sox to win. However, if they don’t, I’ll be able to walk with my chin up the next day.

I couldn’t say the same thing five years ago.