Carlos Zambrano is sorry, and he wants the world to know. The statements he made (quoted in that ESPN Chicago article) are pretty much exactly what people are looking for from a guy after an embarrassing episode. The video is more an apology to the fans, which, again, is exactly what the Cubs organization is expecting from Zambrano.
They're also expecting him to pitch better, so we can only hope there's some connection between his composure in general and his abilities on the mound. I've always doubted that to be true, but I hope I'm wrong. Will writing in his anger journal every time he gets mad really help him locate his cutter?
Hey, maybe it will. No one who watches the Cubs with any interest can deny that emotional investment in this team has its share of physiological effects. Fans get nervous during games, so players undoubtedly do too. The difference in most professional athletes, or any public performer for that matter, is that they can harness the nervous energy as a catalyst, propelling them to even better levels of performance than they would otherwise achieve. That's why we cheer, isn't it, to provoke such a response?
Anger isn't usually so beneficial, but it can be. Vin Scully has said that Jackie Robinson played better when he was angry. His vitriolic reaction to the hatred he faced fueled his performance without causing him to explode. Most human beings don't respond that way, but some do (my only other example is Wesley Snipes in White Men Can't Jump, so I'll move on). I don't think anyone suspects Zambrano of being one of those rare exceptions, at least not anymore.
From what Zambrano is saying, much to the pleasure of Jim Hendry and the rest of the Cubs' front office (and potential trade partners, I suppose), he's taking his anger management therapy seriously and views it in a positive light. Some people, with Ron Santo as their most vocal leader, think Zambrano's anger and lack of composure is the only thing stopping him from being an all-world pitcher. If they're right, the next couple of months should be a lot of fun to watch.
I've heard wanting to win at all costs is a way of life, too, but I'll have to take LeBron's word for it. Maybe it has something to do with being a Yankees fan.
Opinions about LeBron James's decision are like pirated versions of the summer blockbuster Inception; if you're an absolute Google expert, I'm sure you can find at least one online. Alright, maybe I've understated the ubiquity of Lebronology on the Interweb, but this topic is experiencing a dearth of understatement, so I thought I'd do my best to help out.
The Decision, for its depraved lack of subtlety, is not without its valuable lessons. LeBron made a rather sick display, Cavs owner Dan Gilbert responded in kind, and every sports journalist in America (along with some ESPN employees) overreacted to both of them. All of the overreactions can teach us Cubs fans a thing or three about the dangers inherent in caring about sports.
Sport is, by definition, an exercise in amusement, so the waves of reactionary rage rippling through the sports world betray the concept of entertainment just a tad. For LeBron, basketball is his profession (as is inflating his image, and I don't mean that sarcastically; his image is his livelihood). I understand why this is important to him. Dan Gilbert stands to lose a lot of games and a lot of money, so I understand why he's angry along with the citizens of Cleveland who suffer the economic ramifications of LBJ's departure. The rest of the outrage feeds off moral indignation and jilted fanaticism. I ride on both bandwagons as much as the next guy, so I can't criticize too heavily except to say we should all probably just move on to the learning stage of this saga.
The first lesson, taught by Professor James, is that people who win don't befriend too many losers along the way. The New York Yankees and their fans don't care that you don't like them. Their goal is not to win friends but to win championships. If the public were to arrive at a consensus that the Yankees are fair, modest, and considerate of the desires of their small-market competitors, someone by the name of Steinbrenner would start firing people until that perception met it its untimely doom. Anyone who really wants to win at all costs will suffer a considerable amount of hatred and dismiss it happily as collateral damage.
An insatiable desire to win will make people do unpopular things. For those with power, talent, and foresight, acts of desperation usually correspond to strides of great progress (and the occasional embarrassing LeBronesque largesse). For the Cubs and their fans, desperation usually just leads to stupidity. We want the Cubs to win so badly, we're willing to believe it's possible. We'll offer up suggestions that, if followed, are sure to make it happen. We'll buy tickets and merchandise and electronic delivery systems that allow us to feed the Cubs' coffers in the hopes that our financial and emotional investments will lead to a championship that is all the more honorable and valuable because of its overwhelming unlikelihood.
When the miracle doesn't happen, we have a chance to learn the lesson taught in glorious Comic Sans by Dan Gilbert. He was angry. Langston Hughes told us what to expect when a dream is deferred, and in Gilbert's case, it exploded. It's not cause for intense analysis anymore than Z's dugout tirade was. He was angry. Angry people say and do stupid things sometimes. Whoa! Shocker! The lesson: don't put a whole lot of stock in what angry people say. And maybe try not to get so angry about a game.
When the Cubs lose, we tend to respond by saying ridiculously stupid things. Sometimes in defiance of the team, sometimes in their defense, but more often than not in stupidity. I don't want to begrudge people their murderous Cubs rants. They are what they are. I just want to make sure we understand that what they are is generally stupid. It's a way of life, not a way of genius.
The third and final lesson comes from all the fans and media members who feel the need to spout off about these events as though it's Churchill and Roosevelt in whose hands the state of the world rests. I don't expect people to stop discussing it, but do we have to take it all so seriously? The same goes for the Cubs. Obviously, I'm a Cubs blogger so I'm devoting an unnatural allotment of time and effort to this baseball team. It's a sickness, and I understand that. Save yourselves! But seriously, if I may be so bold, I suggest we enjoy this team for the amusement they provide and to walk away when it starts feeling like suffering. Maybe not a total break up, but a break nonetheless. Hey, look, it's three days off, right on time!
To sum up the LeBron thoughts, we have ambitious guy, angry guy, and analyst people, all of whom are primarily concerned with a bouncy ball and guys in shorts. I'm as guilty as anyone of caring too much about any of that. And all I've got to say is . . .
Aerosmith is a great band, but I've always felt that they peaked with their first hit, "Dream On." Now, that's a fine zenith, one that most bands would kill to reach, and a lot of my Aerosmith-loving friends would disagree with my assertion to begin with. But I know I'm not the only person to rank "Dream On" as Steven Tyler & Co.'s best song and one of the greatest in rock & roll history. You could argue they recorded a song or songs that were as good as "Dream On," but I can't be convinced that they've done anything that was better. (It was also the featured song of the above highlight reel ESPN played to close out 1999, which was, for me, the best of the uber-emotional musical sports montage genre . . . still gets me verklempt.)
Notice the price in the upper right of the ticket: $6.00
I bring this up now because of May 6 and May 7. You may recall a game that took place on May 6, 1998. Cubs. Astros. Ring a bell? You probably remember where you were when it happened. I do. I remember the telephone of my Chicago apartment ringing shortly after the game ended. It was my mom.
"Did you see the game?" she asked in a near shriek.
"Yeah," I said calmly, followed by a pause for dramatic effect. "From the BLEACHERS!!!"
I was supposed to have been at work. But for the third day in a row, I had been swinging a sledge hammer all day long, knocking down brick-plaster walls, picking up the scraps, and hauling away the wreckage. I was exhausted. So at about 11:30 I asked for the afternoon off. It just sounded like a good idea to catch a game. I thought Kerry Wood was pitching, and I really wanted to get to see him in person. One short El ride later, and I was at the Wrigley Field Box Office hoping, but skeptically, that there were still bleacher seats left. The attendant laughed off my skepticism.
"Oh yeah, we got plenty. We definitely have one."
Score.
I took a seat in the left-center bleachers where there was plenty of room to stretch out. I was a bit worried by the clouds sweeping across the sky, some of them spilling a few drops here and there. It was one of those weird days when some of the ballpark was in sunshine while other seats were getting rained on. All in all, though, it was a beautiful day for me and 15,757 of my friends to enjoy.
Soon, a married couple of Astros fans (in town from Houston, they had seen the Astros win the night before) in Biggio jerseys sat in front of me. I felt a sting of anxiety when they smirked at Kerry's first fastball, which sailed directly into Jerry Meals. But from that point on, the smirks were all mine.
Kerry's fastball zipped so blindingly fast, there were times when I confused the smack of Sandy Martinez's glove with the crack of a bat. Some of his pitches I genuinely could not see. But his breaking stuff? Normally I can't tell a slider from a 2-seamer when I watch a game in person, but I could see Kerry's slider swooping out of the strike zone like a Frisbee. I could see the fear in the Astros' eyes, the wobble in their knees, and the swirly black thought bubble of frustration emanating from the tops of their heads.
As the game wore on, that crowd of less than 1/2 capacity exploded with ovations of glee. We were high-fiving. We were shouting. We were openly mocking the trespassers from the West who were outed by their Cardinals umbrellas when the rain got a bit too heavy for them. One guy to my left, wearing a newspaper for a rain hat, was announcing the strikeout totals with every batter. We were all grumbling slightly about Kevin Orie. We united as one in sheer joy over the crowning of baseball's newest King of K's.
After 2 hours and 19 minutes, we went home. Unbelievable. Unstoppable. Unequivocal.
Unrepeatable.
In the career of Kerry Lee Wood, the apex of his achievements occurred in his fifth start as a major leaguer. It was quite possibly the greatest display of pitching in the history of baseball. He could never improve upon that. Nobody could. I find it suddenly and incredibly sad to think that Kerry Wood's finest moment, the most dramatic tear-jerking, goosebump-inducing highlight, came just a few steps into his journey as a pro.
It's not exactly the same situation, but I'd hate for something similar to befall Starlin Castro. On May 7, 2010, he took the baseball world by storm, yet another 20-year-old Cub to set the standard for big-splash achievements. Starlin drove in 6 runs, 3 on a homer in his very first appearance at a big-league plate, and another 3 on a triple showcasing his yes-we-should-be-excited-about-this-kid speed. No player had ever begun his career with a 6-RBI game. Ever. How can Castro improve on that?
Tonight, Starlin has a chance to impress the Wrigley faithful as he debuts in a building that, according to Ozzie Guillen, he's not even old enough to attend. The kid needs McLovin to help him buy beer, but 40,000 screaming fans are relying on him to deliver them a champion—you know, just another thing that hasn't happened in over a century.
UPDATE: Starlin Castro went 0-2 with 2 walks and 3 errors. He got booed after the last one. Lou knew Starlin would be learning on the fly, but fans lack the patience for that. They want the prodigy but not the child. Starlin's first lesson: Wrigley Field is infested with jerks, and the real cockroaches like to come out at night.
I was going to try to post a thoughtful introspective about the pros and cons of keeping Milton Bradley and the basic question of who is more detrimental to a team: an underperforming player or a so-called clubhouse cancer. That kind of talk will have to wait, because I found this video on ESPN, and I think it's hilarious.
I'll entertain arguments from just about anyone on just about any topic, but I refuse to believe anyone trying to convince me that those aren't Sid and Marty Krofft puppets. I'll resist the urge to comment on Levine's wardrobe. It really does a magnificent job of making fun of itself.
For about two hours this morning, the big story among Cubs fans was the announcement that ESPN has commissioned a Steve Bartman documentary. The small matter of Ortiz and Ramirez getting leaked on, or something, took a lot of the focus off of things that happened in 2003. Giggle.
But within that brief window of mass interest/disgust regarding the Bartman story, I couldn't help but laugh when I read the scores of tweets and reader comments expressing how very little anyone cares about the Bartman story anymore. Phrases like "We're over it," "No one blames Bartman," and "Who cares?" popped up quite a lot.
The public sentiment was, Leave Bartman alone. The story is over, and we have moved on. How dare you, ESPN, exploit this poor man and torture the Cubbie faithful by bringing up something that happened 6 years ago?!? I understand the thinking, but it's a lie.
Cub fans (and those who pity them) are still bringing up the Goat from 1945. When we long for the good old days, our hearts have to stretch back to 1908. Six years is like a fortnight in Cubbie years. Some other things we can't let go of: Bruce Froemming robbing Milt Pappas; Leon Durham letting that ball go through him; the lights; the 7th inning stretch . . . the list goes on. Cub fans don't get over anything, least of all trauma.
If the volume and intensity of negative response is any indication, Steve Bartman will always be a strong ratings grab. But before you accuse ESPN of tormenting Bartman, consider this simple fact: he is a die-hard Cubs fan who is resigned to the fact he will never go to Wrigley again. Due to fear of the press? Fear of ESPN? No. Bartman knows better than to surround himself with Cub fans. Imagine that. Knowing you'll never go back to Wrigley because of who you are. For those of us not named Ozzie Guillen, that would suck.
So I'm curious to see the documentary. I don't want to know where Bartman is now. I don't want to relive the horror of the cursed foul ball. I just want someone to explore what it is about the culture of Cubs fans that causes such deep, spirited, emotional reactions to such minute details as a fan reaching out for a foul ball.
There is a mental block contaminating the minds of Cub fans and Cub players. It's a natural curse no one can deny. I don't think we should be afraid to prod it.
