And now, a message from God

Hey sports fans. God here.

Something I've been hearing a lot this spring from Chicago Cubs fans is, "We've been suffering for 100 years, waiting for this World Series drought to end. It must be our year."

Oh. My. Self. Let's get right to this.

First of all, Cubs fans, you have not been waiting for 100 years. While you may subscribe to the belief that the memories of your parents and grandparents are passed down to you in some form at birth--something I will neither confirm nor deny (even though I could, being God and all) because that's for you to figure out--the fact remains: None of you--with a few exceptions--have been alive these past 100 years. And many of you who cry the most have seen but a few decades of the 100-year lapse.

To prove my point, I'll share with you a headline from a 1910 evening edition of the Chicago Daily News: "Cubs end difficult fortnight with 1-0 loss to the Boston Rustlers--Will play the Brooklyn Superbas to-morrow."

Does that cause you heartache? Of course not. Their starter that day--back then known as "the pitcher unless he's struck down by tuberculosis"--couldn't even read. Their uniforms looked like this. Yet, you think that moment in time somehow relates to the distress you feel while you watch a game played by guys who look like this and who not only read but head up their own investment groups and employ a small team of legal experts?

Face it: At best, you're on the same plane as Indians fans (last World Series Win: 1948) and Giants fans (1954). At worst, you're no different from a Mets fan (1986).

You know who has been around and cognizant these last hundred years? That's right--Me. And it has not been fun. That isn't to say that I care about the fortunes of one particular baseball team over another. But--I'm not gonna lie--you Cubs fans get more obnoxious every year. So if anyone's been "suffering" over that time, it's me for having to put up with your bellyaching.

Which gets me to my next point: How dare, dare, dare you invoke the word "suffering" in the name of your favorite baseball franchise. You wanna know real suffering? Try living in west Africa. You wanna know a real drought? Again--west Africa.

In the 100 years since the Cubs last won the World Series, the following have happened:

-two World Wars
-the Holocaust
-the Great Depression
-Pol Pot
-Jim Crow
-Vietnam
-AIDS
-9/11
-Darfur
-lots of other really, really bad stuff

And you have the gall to speak of your favorite baseball team in the same terms as these tragedies?

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're gonna say (because I know everything, in case you forgot): "But of course those things are much worse. I would never think of putting a baseball game ahead of real-world issues."

Oh really? Save it for someone who can't read your every emotion. I know how you really feel, so just own up to it, ok?

And another thing: If I get one more prayer for the Cubs to win the World Series from anyone over the age of ten, I just might... well, okay, I won't even bother with some empty threat. Because contrary to popular opinion, I don't punish people for stuff that "upsets" me.

But I hope you at least get the hint: I'm tired of it. I mean, last week I heard from some 38 year-old guy praying that Prince Fielder will get injured. That's just fucked up. (What? I curse. Why does that surprise you?) I love you all unconditionally, don't get me wrong. But sometimes you Cubs fans have me wondering whether I should reconsider that policy.

And behavior like this:



...makes me wonder why I let my creation lead to human beings. Surely I miscalculated something.

Whoa, whoa... Settle down. Even I can be sarcastic when I want, right? God privilege.

Lest you think I'm bitter over this matter, let me close by saying this:

I want you to be happy. And I'm pleased that my creation has given you simple pleasures like the game of baseball. So if I can petition you just once, please promise me you'll go to the ballpark this year, and just enjoy it. Let go of your desires; let go of your expectations, and simply... enjoy.

Enjoy the talents, efforts, and exhuberance of young men whom you've asked to entertain you with a game. Cheer them on. Encourage them. Bring funny signs that make silly puns of their last names. Rest assured--they'll know when they've let themselves down without the spiteful din spewing from your mouths.

Let them enjoy their craft, perfect a gift, and make a better life for themselves without the suffocating interference of your frivilous wants. Remember that you enjoy the warm sun, crack of the bat, pop of the glove, and all that other cliched crap that George Will and Bob Costas talk about, whether or not "your" team wins.

And if you can't enjoy it without that win, go use your competetive agression for something other than passive observance.

Ok... sermon over. (Even I hate preachiness.)