Bleed Cubbie Blue: All Posts by Mike Bojanowski

A History Of Cubs Scorecard Artwork: 1916-1981

2013-01-27T19:00:03Z

The Adventure Of The STH Renewal; Or, Joe Mather's Exploit

2012-08-28T12:30:14Z

NOTE FROM AL: Mike told me, during the disastrous ninth inning of Monday's defeat to the Brewers, that I could have the day off from writing a recap. Herewith his effort, with all apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department.

Sherlock Holmes and I reached the front door of our flat at #3 Baker Street later than usual that night, both of us sad and depressed. Holmes was unused to failure, in his leisure as well as in his professional life. As for myself, perhaps my gloom was aggravated by the dull throbbing of the Cheesehead bullet I still carried in one of my limbs as a souvenir of the northern road trip we had taken last summer, a tale for which the world is not yet prepared.

As we trudged up the seventeen steps which led to our lodgings, I reflected upon the circumstances that had led to this day. We had arrived in the States three years ago, on a longterm secret mission undertaken at the personal behest of Her Majesty the Queen, a summons neither Holmes nor I felt we could decline.

Seeking necessary shelter and anonymity, we had chanced upon this funky (both of us having made a special effort to adopt American slang) neighborhood in the middle west, and upon this flat, owned by one Ms. Ricketts, a genial landlady. On her assurances that, in this region, two adult bachelors sharing the same rooms would arouse no suspicion whatsoever, our last misgivings were overcome, and we took immediate possession.

It was Ms. Ricketts who drew our attention to the local professional team, and Holmes and I had both become smitten by their sad and futile history, so similar to the seemingly insoluble mysteries that had often crossed our humble threshhold back in London. I well remember the smile upon Holmes’s face as she described the team, an expression that I often saw when my friend possessed an understanding of a situation beyond my comprehension.

We opened the door to find that a marvelous cold epicurean supper had been laid out for us. "Ms. Ricketts exceeds herself," said Holmes, "perhaps this shall lift us from our gloom."

But even such a capital repast failed to improve our spirits. I settled onto the sofa, while Holmes took a helping of tobacco from the Persian slipper on the mantle, and proceeded to light the oldest and foulest of his pipes. He sat in the large armchair, fingertips pressed together, as he did when in judicial moods. Thus we passed several minutes in silence.

"So, Watson," Holmes said suddenly, "you do not propose to renew your season tickets for 2013?"

I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes’s curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

Holmes wheeled about in his chair. "Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.

"I am."

"I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect, for in five minutes you will say it is all so absurdly simple."

"I am sure I will say nothing of the kind."

Holmes began, in the manner of a professor lecturing his class, "Here are the links in a very simple chain."

"One, you attended tonight's game in a state of gloom. You had been encouraged by a competitive July, but this disastrous August has dispirited you. Even winning a series against Colorado last weekend did little to improve your outlook."

"Two, the game was well in reach for a long time, perhaps making the doom so much more wrenching. Indeed, the Cubs led three-to-one into the fifth inning, scoring thrice in the third, including three rare two-out base hits."

"Three, I saw the grimness of your mood as the Cubs lost the lead for good within three batters in the fifth, including a double by the despised Braun, then a home run by Ramirez, the erstwhile Cubs hero. Pitcher Germano has now lost twice to the Brewers this season. Milwaukee starter Estrada was as effective as he needed to be, and his bullpen did their jobs as well."

"Four, the game was still winnable into the eighth, after a Jackson home run in the sixth cut the deficit to one run. But Soriano ended that inning by grounding out with the bases loaded, three of the twelve runners the Cubs left stranded this evening. Again I saw your jaw set with stoic resignation. And I would direct your attention to the curious incident of the manager in the seventh inning."

"But the manager did nothing in the seventh inning," I said.

"That was the curious incident," replied Holmes. "Reliever Corpas was not allowed to warm up until the pinch-hit at-bat that inning was nearly complete, thus entering the game unprepared, and perhaps indirectly leading to the home run by Gomez in the eighth that increased the Milwaukee lead to two runs."

"Five, the horrific ninth inning, a concentration of all this season’s foibles in pathetic parade. The first eight batters reaching. Three home runs in succession, all off the tragically inadequate Hinshaw. In all, eight base hits, three walks, nine runs. And a final insult, outfielder Mather came to the mound to dispatch the final two batters, a strategem unused by the Cubs since, if memory serves, 1999; a period covering the full tenures of four managers. On this blighted night, four hits and five driven in for the suspected Braun, two home runs and four driven in for the formerly-beloved Aramis. I pitied your obvious distress."

"Six, I knew the die was cast after the second Ramirez home run, which came to rest a short distance from where we sat. Retrieved by a comely female Cubs fan, who promptly sold it to a youthful male in full Brewers regalia, bearing a beer in one hand, and a double-sawbuck in the other. I saw your hand steal toward the old wound in your shoulder, and an expression of contempt for human nature overspread your countenance such as I had not seen since our encounter with Charles Augustus Milverton, of infamous memory."

"Seven, it is your habit at this time of year to reserve rooming space in Arizona for the upcoming spring, your predictable first investment in next year’s team."

"Eight, your checkbook is in the locked desk drawer, and you have not asked me for the key. Conclusion: you do not intend to renew."

"How absurdly simple," I said, more in melancholia than humour.

"I understand your despair," he replied, "but think of the poor uneducated fan, who could not tell an All-Star from his WAR, or an effective reliever from his WHIP? What would you be able to tell him?"

Just then I heard the tinny, muffled strains of "Rule Britannia," the ringtone of Holmes’s cellular phone, one of several modern weapons of detection he had adopted since our arrival in America. With an air of anticipation, he withdrew it from the pocket of his waistcoat.

"Halloa! Halloa!" he eagerly shouted into the fragile, overmatched device. It was difficult, at such times, to separate Holmes the man of action from Holmes the fan. He was still apt to behave as though pursuing hell-hounds across the northcountry moors. I was later told that, on the floors below, Holmes’s cry had raised the sleepers from their beds.

But Holmes quickly adjusted his tone, and I heard the now-familiar, clipped, half-conversation:

"Yes."

"No."

"Perhaps."

"NO!"

"You gotta be bleepin’ me!"

"‘Bye!"

"A thousand pardons, Watson," he said as he thrust the contraption back into his pocket, "I forget myself at such times. That was Capricorn, one of my new Baker Street Irregulars. He stations himself in local coffee-houses in order to eavesdrop upon front office personnel. His information has on many occasions been of value to me."

"And his news?" I asked.

"Is no news," Holmes replied. "No new callups or trades are foreseen."

"Is there no hope?" I raved. "With all your great powers, can you offer a glimmer of comfort?!"

"My dear fellow, will you never learn to apply my maxim?" said Holmes, irritably.

"‘That when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’?" I said.

Holmes did not reply to my query, but took the small key from his vest pocket and strode to the secret drawer within the desk. From there he withdrew the tooled morocco case, and its dreadful contents.

Many times I had witnessed this performance, which Holmes claimed saved him from mental stagnation, and the ravages of ennui. He was in the process of preparing yet another dose of his infamous "seven-percent solution" of cocaine. Already the syringe and needle were assembled. My greatest regret regarding our relocation had been that Holmes had encountered a reliable supplier amongst the "funkheads" almost at once.

As Holmes’s medical adviser, I had for years struggled with my conscience, balancing my concern for his health against the possible loss of the friendship I valued above all other things. But then the force of Holmes’s maxim came into my mind: the hundred-loss seasons to come, the years yet to wait, the all too real chance of utter failure and despair. I found a courage and resolve I had never thought I possessed. I rose defiantly from the sofa and confronted my friend.

"Holmes!" I cried, as the vial slowly filled, "save me some of that shit!"

The Old Man And The Lee

2012-07-18T13:00:48Z

NOTE FROM AL: The Cubs' winning streak was snapped Tuesday night. During the game, Mike told me I could have the night off; he'd take care of the recap. Here it is.

With apologies to Mr. Ernest M. Hemingway, deceased, late of Oak Park IL.

The Old Man arose before the sun, as was his custom. He pulled on his rough clothes and stepped outside.

He urinated against the wall of the rude hut in which he lived, talking care that his neighbors did not see, for they had informed the inquisidore on an earlier occasion, and the Old Man had to defend himself before the alderman. But for a poor man with no plumbing in his dwelling, such an act carries no shame.

He walked directly to the little coffee shop in which he took his meals, and daily read the baseball news. He no longer walked along the wharves to talk with his fellow fishermen, as he had always done before, since he was now sumamente maldito, and no one would greet or speak with him. He had been so since his great record of one hundred and three days without catching a fish, a record which continued to that very morning.

In a reverie, the Old Man recalled the days of his youth and strength, when he was called El Oso Campión, and had defeated all challengers. But he seldom dwelt on his past, since nearly all who had remembered those days were now dead.

He thought of his namesake team, which he had followed all the decades of his long life. They, as he, were now sumamente maldito, and time had taught the Old Man to deal with this.

He sat down at the small table, reading the baseball news, and awaited the arrival of the boy. The boy had sailed with him as his apprentice until the boy’s parents, worried at the Old Man’s ill fortune, had bound him to Captain Osvaldo, who owned a marlin boat that prospered from the tourist trade. Since then the Old Man had sailed alone.

The boy approached the shop. Every morning he and the Old Man shared coffee and the baseball news. Though he honored his position with Captain Osvaldo, and knew his parents would disapprove, he came daily nonetheless, for he loved the Old Man.

"Hola, El Oso," said the boy, and sat.

"Hola," replied the Old Man. "I hear Captain Osvaldo’s guests caught many fish yesterday."

"Damn his fish," said the boy, softly.

"And I also hear he has a new sculpted figurehead, which dances with joy when a guest catches a very big fish."

"Damn his figurehead," said the boy, loudly.

A twinkle appeared in the eye of the Old Man, for he knew that the boy, in his disappointment in their team’s failure, had pinned his hopes upon early draft picks. Pointing to the baseball news, the Old Man said: "You will be pleased this morning, we remain among the worst teams of all."

"Yet it is spoiled for me by the Padres of San Diego, the Rockies of Colorado, and the Astros of Houston," said the boy.

"True," replied the Old Man, "they are even poorer than we, for the moment. Who could know?"

"And there are the Twins of Minnesota and the Royals of Kansas City," said the boy.

"You must stop now," said the Old Man, with a chuckle, "or you will fear even the Diamondbacks of Arizona and the Brewers of Milwaukee."

"So how was it done, this time?", asked the boy.

"The Cubs loss to Miami was nine against five," began the Old Man, reading from the crumpled newsprint. "The game was quiet until the fourth inning, when pitcher Wood gave up his first hits, two singles and then a home run to Omar Infante. Then, in the fifth inning, three weak singles bring Carlos Lee to the bat."

"Yo se lo que pasó después," said the boy, his head lowered to the top of the table.

"Indeed," said the Old Man, "Lee hit a great slam, the seventeenth great slam he has ever hit, and the third great slam he has ever hit against the Cubs. But for a solo home run in the seventh, the scoring for Miami came to an end."

"What remains to be said?" the boy sighed.

"You have not yet heard all," replied the Old Man. "The Cubs fought on. Baker hit a home run in the fifth, another run was scored in the sixth, and three runs in the seventh before the young Antonio made a double play with the tying run standing on deck. But that was all that was done. Pitcher Wood was the loser, after having good games in the recent past."

"And the young Starlin?" asked the boy.

The Old Man paused, for he knew the boy had grown sour regarding the promising short stop. "The young Starlin was two of five, and flawless in the field," he said.

"Yet he still leads all on the team in errors and his average falls like an anchor," hissed the boy. "Cabeza estúpida!"

The Old Man merely smiled. "Someday I would like to take the young Starlin fishing, and remind him of his people. They say he was a poor boy from a country such as ours. Perhaps then he would understand."

"You must go now," said the Old Man to the boy. "Captain Osvaldo has no patience with ones who are late."

The boy stood up fiercely, the bitter tears burned his eyes. "But I want to sail with you, El Oso!"

"Yes," replied the Old Man, "but it is better this way. You are young, you must know success, and not failure. Your parents are wiser than you know, and Captain Osvaldo may change you in ways you do not yet understand."

"Osvaldo?! **** that **********er," muttered the boy, as he walked out the door.

The Old Man smiled a sage smile.

The Sunday Funnies

2012-05-06T12:30:12Z

In which we tell you what the Wrigley Field seagulls are really thinking.

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A Theo Epstein Groundhog Day

2012-02-02T14:01:48Z

It's February 2. Somewhere, a special meeting of groundhogs is taking place...

The Theo Epstein Sunday Funnies

2011-10-16T16:00:44Z

If Theo Epstein were to get a statue someday, perhaps it would look like this.

Requiem For The Cubs' 2011 Season

2011-09-29T18:01:23Z

... in cartoon form.

The Friday Funnies: A Cubs/White Sox Daydream

2011-07-01T12:00:59Z

In which we reveal some baseball history that might have happened, if only...