In a year that has ratcheted from the banal to the bizarre,
with presidential politics plumbing unprecedented depths while
sagebrush insurgents walk free after the armed expropriation of a federal
facility, it comes to this: the Cleveland Indians versus the Chicago Cubs, both
perennial doormats, in the 112th World Series.
That’s right, folks, the year keeps getting “curiouser and
curiouser,” as Alice might say in “Adventures In Wonderland.” Cleveland, which
hasn’t won a World Series since Mickey Mantle was a teenager (1948), faces the
even more woeful Cubbies, which hasn’t won a World Series since “Shoeless” Joe
Jackson was a rookie (1908).
It’s tough picking a team to root for in this one. The
Indians, the parent club for my beloved Portland Beavers, were a traditionally
beleaguered bunch. Spending my summers at Multnomah Stadium, I saw many a great
player such as “Sweet” Lou Pinella graduate to the Indians, only to be promptly
traded to the Yankees. He wasn’t alone.
My affinity for the Chicago Cubs dates back to Ernie Banks,
known as “Mr. Cub,” who wowed the fans at Wrigley Field, and the fact that I had to spend a week on the streets of
the North Side of Chicago when our GMC panel truck broke down en route to
Detroit on a cross country road trip right after graduating from high school.
Who do I like to win the World Series? I’ll never tell. But
I know this: it will be the team that decides to take it up a notch -- to go for
that brass ring that has eluded them for so long. It will be the team that won’t
have to admit, as Yogi Berra put it so eloquently: “you wouldn’t have won if we’d
beaten you.”
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