Keeping Cubs Faith from South Side to Really South Side

“Two out of three ain’t bad…” — Jim Steinman

Viva La meatloaf!

There was a little enclave on the Southwest Side — more or less bounded by the Home Run Inn, the southeast end of Midway airport, the White Owl Indian, and Archer National Bank — where it was permitted to be for blue (a long time ago). The TV sets in those countless bars tuned in to WGN in the afternoons, when the old men would drink and play a little eight-ball in the quiet time, and bet on the horses and the cards. The zip codes for the area are 60629 and 60632, which are still contested.

The awnings said “Zimne Pivo,” “Cerveza Frias,” and “Ice-Cold Beer.” It was a different time. While the Stockyards were still open, most of my relatives worked there. My grandpa was the guy who knocked the cattle out — he used a rubber sledgehammer, though the rumor was that he used his fists.

Odds are that he spread the rumor, which likely helped him in his side hustle as a bagman for local bookies. This is in fact how I became a Cubs fan. I’d accompany him on his rounds in the summertime. Sometimes even after school, depending on departure time.

I’d sit and sip a root beer while Grandpa Ed and the proprietors would palaver over suds and a shortie, and watch the game while they dickered. There was always dickering and bargaining, but I never saw him get serious with anyone. Laughter was the order of the day, not raised voices.

Not while I was there.

Then we’d get the paper lunch bag, stow it away in the shopping bag, and hop back on the bus.

Grandpa Ed passed when I was six. But I stayed a fan through innumerable fistfights and even that horrible 1969 ending, when I was eight years old. Even after Ronnie and Kessinger went to da Sout’ Side. After 1984 and 1989 and 1998 and 2003/7/8, I maintained allegiance. The 2016 season was the reward.

Nowadays, I live on the really South Side, about an hour from the Mexican border, where there are LOTS of Cubs fans sporting the blue. I haven’t had my corpus to the Federal Landmark in 30 years, and I haven’t seen live baseball since 2016, when David Bote beat the Japanese National Team at Sloan Park.

I still keep the faith. And while times are different, few things are better than beating the White Sox. At Wrigley Field. And it counts now. It didn’t always. Fans of advancing years will remember the Crosstown Classic’s many incarnations, like when Michael Jordan beat the Cubs.

I agree with Brian O’Neill — I don’t hate the Sox. Not like the Cardinals or the Red Wings or the Packers. It’s a different thing. Linze Rice has it covered.

I feel the plight of the South Side Cubs fan. And though the pain lessens some with distance, I’d still rather fight than switch.