White Sox Eat Mule Cock!

And so it has begun, another baseball season. (Sorry for taking a week to notice.)

Another season of watching the Chicago Cubs tack up another "Wait 'til Next Year" banner.  This should make #103, if I'm counting correctly. We currently have more of these championships any other team—suck that Yankees!

So, did we make the right trades in the offseason? I'm going to go ahead and guess no.

Is Mike Quade merely a cheap bridge until we can overpay for the next used-to-be great manager on his way to retirement? I'm going to go ahead and guess yes.

All this said and I still love the Cubs. Have since my first Keith Moreland baseball card slid out of its wax paper wrapper along with that famous pink cardboard stick of gum. Have since they fell apart in 1984. Have since I moved 300 miles away from home so I could live 5 blocks from them. Have since I worked the door at the Cubby Bear across the fricken street from Wrigley.

Every Cub fan has a million stories like these. Stories of disappointment and woe. Horrible, breath stealing, daggers to the lungs stories.

Every Cub fan also has a million endearing stories of Wrigley. Skipping work to catch a 1:20 game and drink whatever red colored hell in a plastic cup they serve under the bleachers. Punching some drunk in the face after a Cubs loss. Cramming onto a Red Line train, with no A/C in July, with 5000 half-juiced, booze sweating fans. Dancing with Vince Vaughn at some over crowded sports bar after a win.

So, does the good outweigh the bad? Does the debauchery, the fun and the insanity of being a Cubs fan out shine the losses, the bad management and the bloated paychecks of semi-washed up players and players that just don't pan out?

Millions of Cubs fans have died since they last won a championship. And millions more Cubs fans would like Steve Bartman's head on a spit.

Sure this may not be our year. Or maybe it will be. Agree or disagree, the one thing we can surely all agree on is... The White Sox Eat Mule Cock!