Today is a day of hope for Cub fans everywhere—thinking this, at last, is the year.
Of course it may not be, but you can't tell us that today. All we cling to this day is the dream that what lies ahead are the one hundred sixty-two opportunities, one hundred sixty-two days of hope—of hope that one hundred years of failure can be redeemed, day by day, inning by inning.
Best of all, for me, it starts six (and I hope seven) months of singing these words--"so it's root, root, root for the CUBBIES. If they don't win it's a shame"—every day, with the sweetest little blond Cub fan that ever graced the earth.
One day last fall, after the season had ended, as we lay in bed flipping channels, she said, "Papa, I wanna watch baseball." I almost cried, and thought to myself, "next year, baby; next year."
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