Sad, isn’t it?
Barack Obama yesterday presided over what he characterized as “the last official event at the White House in my presidency.”
Yup. It was the visit by the 2016 World Series champion Chicago Cubs to the White House, a tradition that goes back more than a hundred and fifty years. That’s right, back in 1865, Prez Andrew Johnson entertained the Atlantics of Brooklyn and the Nationals of Washington at the Commander-in-Chief’s crib. Those two baseball gangs were amateurs and they weren’t even champs. The first World Series winners welcomed to the White House were the 1924 Washington Senators with Silent Cal Coolidge playing host. Subsequent champs from every major American professional sport as well as college top dogs have been feted in the Residence by whatever Big Boss held sway. And now my beloved Cubs have graced the place.
Bittersweet. That’s about the only descriptor that fits.
See, after having waited for the big payoff, patiently and not, since 1967 when I first became emotionally invested in the silliness that is Cubs fandom and finally getting it late Wednesday evening, last November 2nd, I now sadly realize my fondest dream has vanished. Poof.
Now what do I pine for?
Truth is, about the only thing worth yearning for at this late date is a final check-out that won’t be painful and drawn out. That, I guess, and the hope that The Loved One won’t cash in her chips before I do — ideally, we’ll take our leave on the same day, a potentiality no more unlikely than…, well, the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series.
When the inventory of all your hopes and aspirations is limited to 1) not dying a painful death and 2) being spared crushing grief, you’ve finally awakened from life’s REM state. Like I said, sad.
I’m long past dreaming of a Pulitzer Prize or being selected to fly on a space mission or running off for a tryst with, say, Carrie Brownstein or Bebel Gilberto. The Cubs winning the World Series was the very last of my youthful fancies.
Ain’t Gonna Happen
Now it’s done and, sure, I was walking on air for five days, 21 hours — until the reality set in that L’il Duce had been tabbed by a benighted electorate — but, as spring training again comes near I realize I don’t give a good goddamn what happens this coming baseball season. I got my ultimate victory. I’m not a greedy slob (like some notorious tweeters we know).
You ever feel heartsick because the alarm woke you out of a delicious dream? For a few hot moments, you keep your eyes shut in hopes you can be transported back to that sunny, exotic beach or into the arms of the lover you blew your chance on years ago. Having spent six decades on this oblate spheroid, I’ve been roused out of more tantalizing dreams — both night and day varieties — than I can ever recall.
Sometimes, the dream just ends.
If that weren’t enough, now the nightmare of President Gag looms. And a pretty decent guy’s presidency is coming to an end.
Sheesh. Makes a guy guy wonder what the hell there is left to live for.
I suppose I’ll think of something.
It’s A Beautiful Day…