HONOR THE GOAT

For those who may not be aware, I'm a Chicago Cubs fan.  I converted to Cubbie-ism at the age of 12 in 1982. When asked why a Cincinnati girl jumped ship to the Cubs I always say it was for two reasons.  1) I thought little cubbie bears were cute.  2)  I had a wild crush on the Cubs catcher, Jody Davis.  Yes, I was at that age, straddling childhood and those teenage years.  And I've lived and died with the team ever since.

Handmade Cubs rosary

We had some good teams.  Some very good teams.  And we never made it to the World Series.  Not since 1945.  And we hadn't won one since 1908.  That's a long time, my friends.  My son, who likes to believe in the paranormal (whether he really does or not) blamed the Curse of the Billy Goat.  For the non-baseball fan, I'll give you a brief version of the story.  Game four of the 1945 World Series, Billy Goat Tavern owner William Sianis brought Murphy the goat to the game.  Folks complained about his odor (the goat, not Sianis) and Murphy was asked to leave.  A furious Sianis said something along the lines of, "Them Cubs, they ain't gonna win no more."  There's a debate whether this meant the Cubs wouldn't win the World Series again or the Pennant again, but either way we had a long, long drought.


After witnessing my angst when the Cubs reached the postseason in 2015, my sister, Nancy, created for me an "Honor the Goat" kit as a Christmas present.  The text of the parchment included read, in part, "Although some believe that heaping various forms of abuse on goats in general is a path to breaking the curse, this document suggests that the best way to disable the curse is to lift Murphy the Goat to the highest level of esteem."  It then went on to direct me to appeal to Murphy's majesty and power and to offer him a tribute before each game by putting a coin on the shelf beneath Murphy's statue on a hand-crafted shrine.  The kit also included a stuffed Curse Breaker goat and a handmade Cubs rosary.

Every single game of the season I put a coin in Murphy's shrine and said, "Oh, beloved goat, I honor you and humbly ask for a Cubs win in today's game."  When I went on vacation with my sister and kids, I texted my husband each day asking if he'd "fed the goat."  I continued through the National League Division Series (which we won) and the National League Championship Series (which we won).  After getting our first Pennant in 71 years, I declared the curse broken, even though some thought we had to win the World Series for this to happen.  In gratitude to Murphy and all goats, I made a $71 donation to the Woodstock Farm Sanctuary for the care of one of their goats.

Sianis with Murphy the goat

Minor panic might have set in at that point.  We were so close to that World Series win.  Towards the end of the Championship Series, I started putting dollar bills in Murphy's shrine.  Each subsequent game I put in a dollar more than the game before.  I began praying that Cubs rosary every day, looking up a few prayers online because, I'm sure much to the horror of  the nuns who taught me, I'd forgotten what prayers went on some of those beads at the beginning.  I rarely prayed an entire rosary as a kid.  I've gotten into using mala beads this year and saying mantras on them as a form of meditation.  I took to chanting an entire strand of mala beads twice a day, using the mantra to Ganesha for overcoming obstacles.  For good measure I did the Novena to St. Therese, the Little Flower.  You say the prayer every day for five days and then are supposed to be "blessed" with a rose appearing to you.  I promptly forgot about this last part until one day my daughter walked into the kitchen and on the back of her shirt was this big rose.  She had just gotten her t-shirt for being part of the crew on the school's production of Beauty and the Beast and was wearing it for the first time.  Hmmmmmm....

For those who haven't had the t.v. on the last few days, I will break the news that the Cubs won the World Series!  It was the most agonizing October of my entire life and that last game on November 2 almost killed me.  Not only did the score go back and forth, but the Indians came back to tie it in the bottom of the 8th against our ace closer.  I was hysterical, on the floor, punching things, crying and wailing.  Then, it started to rain.  And they rolled a damn tarp out onto the field and I thought, "I'm going to have a genuine nervous breakdown right here on my family room floor.  I'm seriously going to lose my mind while wearing plastic baseball earrings."  The game started after 15 minutes and, miraculously, we scored two runs in the top of the 10th.  Just to torture Cubs fans everywhere, the Indians got one of those runs back in the bottom of the 10th, but we held on to win our first World Series in 108 years!  Then I collapsed on the floor again, hysterical and crying and wailing...  Yes, after ordering five tons of World Series merchandise I made another donation to Woodstock Farm Sanctuary, this time for $108.  And all the money collected from the goat shrine over the season will go to the Anthony Rizzo Family Foundation, formed by the Cubs first baseman to support kids with cancer.

So, my sister takes credit for breaking the Cubs curse.  And you know what?  I'll gladly give her the credit.  I still don't believe in curses, but I can't argue with success.  I might also mention that a strand of mala beads, like I used for the World Series, has 108 beads.  A baseball has 108 stitches.  And the Cubs won their first World Series in 108 years.  Hmmmm...

SASQUATCH AND THE DUMBEST THINGS HEARD AT A BALL GAME

The Cubs came to town to play the Cincinnati Reds last night, so naturally I had to go.  Thanks to lingering rush hour traffic, we were slightly late and missed the top of the first inning.  We raced to our seats, first row of a balcony section and the two seats on the end, and found a guy already lounging in seat number two.  Apparently thinking the occupants of the end seats weren't going to arrive, he and the three females in his group had decided to spread out.  He was nice and quickly gathered his beer and moved down a spot.  He then took his correct seat...and half of mine.  Now, I'm not exactly a lightweight myself, so don't think I'm making fun of this guy.  I'm simply noting that he was tall and hefty and just big.  He was very, very big.  He was Sasquatch big.  He sat with his knees apart, putting his right thigh where my left one should have been.  His ham hock arm dangled over me and nearly rested on top of my scorecard.  His massive shoulder jutted into my space and I was left pinned between him and my husband, trying to make myself as narrow as possible.  The Vulcan thought I was getting all cuddly with him.  In reality I was leaning into him to try to get a breath.  It was like wearing a corset.

Sasquatch had several beers and a bag of peanuts, filling his empty beer cup with the vacant shells.  It was a chilly night and The Vulcan kept asking if I wanted my jacket, but I informed him that I was quite warm.  Sasquatch was generating so much body heat it was like being curled up next to a polar bear.  Plus he was a very effective wind break for the biting late evening breezes.  He topped off his peanuts and beer with cotton candy, putting the empty cone in the cup holder, completely blocking my view of home plate.  My sister's reply to my email of the pic was, "He'd be wearing that cone up his fat ass about then," but he was actually a nice guy and he would have removed it if I'd asked.  Instead, I just leaned forward for a better view.  I had to do that often during the evening anyway.  Whenever he talked to the ladies on his left, he bent his torso forward and effectively obscured the entire infield.  Fortunately for me, he and his companions got up frequently and disappeared for an inning, returning reeking of cigarette smoke.  Sadly, based on his size and habits, I don't think this guy is long for this world.  The highlight of the evening was when Sasquatch decided to take part in the wave going around the stadium (which, I might state emphatically here, I loathe and think should be banned from the ballpark).  He stood and waved his arms and tried to flop back into his seat...and missed.  He hadn't noticed his chair seat had sprung into the upright position.  Towards the end of what turned out to be an extra inning game (but a Cubs win), two of his companions stayed in whatever smoker's paradise they'd found and Sasquatch left an empty seat between us.  He departed for good before the final out and as we stood for the 10th time to let him by, he excused himself again and said, "Thanks for being cool about this."  That's okay, Satchy.   Just watch your ticker.

Besides the inability to take a deep breath, my visit to Great American Ballpark was also cursed with the oh-so-familiar patron -- The Big Mouth.  You can pretty much guarantee that at every game there will be one person, usually a guy, who talks frequently and, naturally, at a volume five levels higher than everyone else.  Last night The Big Mouth was sitting right behind me with his wife and two other folks.  This particular Big Mouth had a Kentucky accent as thick as sausage gravy and he was the expert on all things baseball.  Just to add to his pontificating was his amusement in himself.  Most of his comments were punctuated with a loud guffaw that came out something like "hue-HUH" and sounded for the world like laughter I heard on an old cartoon with hillbilly bears.  Besides his nonstop commentary on everything from the game itself to the ballplayers' ages to Brandon Phillips' teeth, he munched peanuts and in flicking the empty shells managed to hit me in the back of the neck several dozen times.  Whenever Sasquatch and his pals went for their smoke break, the other gentleman in Big Mouth's entourage draped his feet over the empty seats in front of him and I got to sit with dirty boots caked with mud and peanut shells a foot away from my face.  There's a deal with a local pizzeria chain that if the Reds' pitchers strikeout 11 during a game, everyone with a ticket gets a free small pizza.  That was reason enough for Big Mouth to give us, with each hitter, an update on the pizza quest.  "Eight more strikeouts for pizza, hue-HUH!"  "Only need five more for pizza, hue-HUH!" 

In all fairness to Big Mouth, I will say he was the baseball expert within his group of four, as I have never heard so many idiotic things said at one ball game in my life. Those of you who don't like baseball and know little about it can maybe forgive them their ignorance.  For someone like me they were fingernails on the blackboard of my soul.  The best lines of the evening:

Jon Lester, Cubs pitcher, came up to bat.  Like many pitchers, he has yet to get a hit early in this season and thus has no batting average, hits, RBI, or OPS.

Friend of Big Mouth:  What's with all them zeroes on that guy?

 -------------------------

Mrs. Big Mouth:  Are all the bases the same distance apart?

Mr. Big Mouth:  Yup.

Mrs. Big Mouth:  Huh.  It always looks a lot shorter from second to third.

 -------------------------

With Reds runner on third:

Mrs. Big Mouth (shouting):  Steal home!

Big Mouth:  Naw, he don't wanna do that now.

Friend of Big Mouth:  Is he ALLOWED to steal home?!?

Big Mouth:  Yeah, he can steal home.

Friend of Big Mouth:  Can he steal from first to second? 

The runner was on third as a result of a single followed by two stolen bases.

 -------------------------

During the sixth inning:

Friend of Big Mouth:  Do they have half time?

Big Mouth:  No, there ain't no half time.  They got the seventh inning stretch.

Friend of Big Mouth:  Do they switch players?

Big Mouth:  They got guys on the bench they can bring into play if they want.

Friend of Big Mouth:  What do they do when they ain't playing?

Big Mouth:  They watch the game.


My children often hurt my heart with their lack of interest in baseball and some of their questions make me cry.  I now console myself that I could be mother to these folks.  And I leave Friend of Big Mouth with this parting shot, my favorite Foghorn Leghorn moment.  Hue-HUH!

IT'S BEEN A LONG, LONG TIME

The last post I wrote was on May 8, 2014.  That's one day short of eleven months.  I'd like to say it's because my life has been a whirl of exciting adventures in those roughly 333 days since.  Yeah, I'd like to say that.  In fact, it's been the usual mix of despair, joy, heartbreak, laughter, and worry that make up most lives.

The Cliff's Notes version of the last year, following the death of my dog, included my sister having cancer, my brother's dog dying, my children being surly teenagers, us adopting a new dog, my other brother's dog dying, going through a Christmas season when I was so grouchy I really didn't want to put up my decorations, turning 45, and getting a subscription to MLB Network so I can see all the Cubs games this year.  I know other things happened in between, both good and bad, but if you asked me to describe the last year, that's pretty much it.  Nothing earth-shatteringly bad, no lottery wins, just life.  And that, unfortunately, does not explain why I haven't written a word.  My life is always very...lifey, so why the drought?

The Inmates - Easter 2005

I put most of it on my daughter, Foghorn, who has morphed from an obnoxious, loud, difficult, opinionated child to an obnoxious, loud, difficult, opinionated teenager.  Except she's eleven.  And don't think the thought of the next seven years or so don't make me break out in hives.  See, she was my biggest source of material and while many people probably found her overbearing and in need of a good slap, they often found her antics amusing because a) it wasn't happening to them and b) it was happening to me.  Now that she's about half an inch shorter than her mom and in full command of a teenager's vocabulary I doubt people would find her so funny.  What's mildly annoying in a six year old becomes flat out rude, crude, and infuriating in a pseudo-teenager and makes people ask, "What's wrong with you?  Get a grip on her!"  And I can't disagree with them...if only I knew how.  Don't get me wrong.  We're not talking drugs or shoplifting or sneaking out in the night to meet middle-aged-men-pretending-to-be-adolescent-boys.  We're talking insolent and stubborn.  She steadfastly refuses to go anywhere with any of us anymore and on the rare occasions when forced (my birthday party, Easter Sunday at Grandma's), she snarls at everyone and makes sure they know how lame she finds them, which is always very lame.  She rarely leaves her room and is a self-described "hermit," leading Uncle Chester to start calling her Hermie.  And, yes, I now torture her by singing, "Why am I such a misfit?  I am not just a knit wit..."

Foghorn - Easter 2015

So, with my main writing material gone and people not interested in a blog composed of nothing but my knitting projects (I'm not that talented of a knitter), what do I write about?  I'm not overly fascinating.  I don't do a whole lot.  I've become that stereotypical 40-ish woman (I refuse to say I'm middle aged) whose kids don't really need her anymore or, more accurately, have nothing but disdain for her, who raised kids instead of having a job, and now finds herself saying, "What the hell do I do with the next four decades?!?"  The obvious answer should be do all that writing that you haven't done in the last 16+ years because you've been raising children.  Yeah, except I'm not sure I want to do that anymore.  Getting published always was hard (as evidenced by the millions of hours of my life spent writing and the relatively small amount of published pieces I have to show for it) and it's arguably harder now than ever.  I have trouble doing something without a purpose.  No, I don't get paid for knitting, but I have a finished product I can be happy with, that I can gift to friends or relatives (or friends' dogs) or charities.  I'm not just producing something that will sit in a drawer.  My history of writing feels like I've knit 721 scarves...and they're all in Rubbermaid bins stuffed in the bedroom closet.  I'm not sure I have the ambition it takes to try to get published anymore.  It seems like such a sad waste of effort when I could be doing something productive like knitting while binge-watching Mad Men on Netflix.

While I haven't figured all that out yet one thing I did realize is that if I don't write something with some regularity, my ability to put two cohesive sentences together might leave me entirely.  Thus my reason for this post.  Or I may have just wanted to publicly whine about my kids.  I do like to do that...a lot.  No, fear not, my intention is not to turn this blog into endless posts about my midlife crisis and search for self.  I'd write a book about it but, hey, the bookstore shelves are full of those already.  It'll just be my usual blog, but without as many stories of my children.  Hmmmmm...feel free to unsubsribe now.

They never should have introduced me to
Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey