It's 8:30 a.m. on the first day of October (Happy Birthday, President Carter!) and I'm waiting to do an interview for an impending assignment at 9 so I can go back to bed for a few hours (didn't sleep well last night for no particular reason). But all that's on my mind is the fact that the Chicago Cubs' playoff run starts today when they host the Los Angeles Dodgers at Wrigley Field.
Everyone knows by now that the Cubs haven't won the Series since 1908, and that a lot of baseball pundits are projecting that this may be the year that all of the sundry Cubs curses are put out to pasture like any old goat. But all I can think of is the many reasons why it won't happen. This, even as I get annoyed when media attention focuses on The Goat and The Black Cat and The Bartman and the other times the Cubs, destined for Glory™, have managed to screw the pooch in the end. (The latest? Just last night on SportsCenter, when the always helpful Rick O'Reilly jotted down the ten ways the Cubs can blow it this year. Lovely.) Hearing many of those same analysts who love the North Siders' chances also say how the Dodgers were the worst-possible playoff matchup for the team isn't helping things. Anyone can be a favorite to win a game or a series or the whole ball of wax, but being a favorite is like a fistful of stocks - it can become just a hunk of paper in not time at all. So there's anxiety building inside Dave, the kind of anxiety that can lead to physical upset if one not careful. But at least I know that if I blow chunks today, it likely won't be because something's wrong with the new liver.
Cross your fingers, everyone. Toes, too, if you have them.