I used to live two blocks from Wrigley Field, at the corner of Halsted and Waveland. My brother lived on Grace. My other brother lived down Sheffield near Irving Park. My sister still lives near the park, just in the other side of Clark Street.

When I lived there I was pretty broke and Sammy Sosa was in the homerun race with Mark McGuire. This was before we knew everybody was juicing, though in retrospect, just looking at their heads should’ve been a clue. Baseball was just part of my life, as it was for anyone who lived near Wrigley. I drank at Murphy’s. On game days my brother would park on the street and sell his alley parking spot to out-of-towners dumb enough to drive into the city. One time, I even made it into one of those fancy roof decks on Sheffield.

In the afternoons or evenings, I'd get on the red line down in the Loop and take it up to Addison. If there was a game and the weather was nice, I'd get off a stop early at Belmont and walk the rest of the way. There was something about Clark Street on spring and summer evenings when the Cubs were playing at Wrigley. It was not a particularly pretty street, but it was alive, and I also didn’t mind all the Irish girls in pinstripes drinking beer.

You could go to games back then. I don't know what it's like now, but even I could afford to just go to the game on a moment’s notice. I could swing it, and back then I couldn't swing much. Sometimes I did. But after a while it became something I didn't do. I'd still watch the games. There was a dicey Chinese joint down the block, but they sold a $5-Fried Rice that could feed a family for nine days. I’d get some Fried Rice, throw open the window, and listen to the crowd as I watched the game, half distracted, half interested. I always rooted for the Cubs, even after I left Chicago, but there was one thing I knew for sure: in the end, they would let me down.

It wouldn't be their fault. It certainly wouldn't be from a lack of heart. The Cubbies always had heart, just like they always had the right pieces to win. (Management decisions were always open for discussion, however…)

No, they'd lose because that's what the Cubs did. Because of The Curse. Because in 1945 some crazy bastard tried to bring his pet goat into Wrigley, but he was denied access by a chewing gum magnate. "Then I curse thee!" Spat William "Billy Goat" Sianis. Or something to that effect.

Decades would pass. Generations would be born, reach adulthood, and shuffle off this mortal coil without ever seeing the Cubs win a World Series. When I was a kid, I went to some farmland in the middle of the night to see Halley's Comet, and by the time I was 24 and living near Wrigley, I suspected that I'd see that comet again before I'd see the Cubs crowned World Champions.

But walking down Clark Street on a warm May evening it didn't matter that where the Cubs were in the standings. Sure they were doing great. Again. They might even have a chance this year. (Sure they did. Talk to me in October.) For now the balconies were overflowing with all sorts of people in blue hats and white jerseys, all drinking beer, all talking. The restaurants were bursting onto the sidewalks, and forget about the bars. There were little kids with giant foam fingers. Guys scalping tickets, buying tickets, right in front of cops. Streets were closed. The El was jammed. It was odd to have that giant baseball park in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Real people actually live in Wrigleyville. It’s not some stadium off a special intestate exit with a bajillion parking lots. There aren’t any hotels, no ESPN Zones. Families live just a block away. They got up and went to work every morning and there just happened to be a gigantic, ancient stadium in the middle of their neighborhood. It was all just normal. It was Wrigley.

For me, the Cubs were never about winning. Chicago had plenty of winners, if that’s what you were in to. The Bears, the Bulls, the Blackhawks-- if you wanted winning, go see them. Hell, we even had a winning professional baseball team. (Perish the thought!)

No, the Cubs were always about losing. Well, maybe not just losing, but losing gracefully. Because losing gracefully is something we all need to do in life. Maybe more than we think. The suspense was not whether or not they could beat the Cardinals, but rather how could they blow it this time? Maybe this year some kid would catch a fluke foul ball and somehow cost them a trip to the World Series. The Cubs always seemed able to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. That’s who they were, and in very real ways, that’s why they were so beloved. Because no matter how many home runs they hit (Sosa!) or how many strikeouts they threw (Kerry Wood!), it would not matter in the end. They’d win and win and win, and then, just when it mattered most–– kaboom. Well. We all had a good time anyway. See you next year!

The older I get, and the further away from Chicago I go, the more I appreciate what a hard city it is. I’ve lived in Los Angeles and Washington DC, and those cities can be nasty and ruthless, but they’re not tough like Chicago. Not even close. I was never worried about actually getting frostbite in Northern Virginia or Santa Monica. I’m so grateful I lived in Chicago, and that I grew up in its orbit. I’ve always had a lot of pride about it, just like any other Chicagoan. (Go ahead. Ask one.) You gotta be tough to live in a city like that. Resilient. You can’t let little things get you down. Because guess what? It’s gonna snow twelve feet tomorrow and then freeze solid. There are going to be shady dealings going down at City Hall. Some people are gonna get bullets in their heads tonight. Your Aunt’s cancer is back. Joey can’t get off the drugs. What are you gonna do?

You’re gonna keep going, because that’s what you do in Chicago. You get up an hour early to shovel out your spot. And you don’t take a spot you didn’t shovel out. The Mayor went on TV and said so–– and he might be as crooked as they come, but on this point, we agree. You don’t close the schools over a little snow. You get your ass up and get to work. You’re gonna go sit with your Aunt because there’s not much time left. You’re gonna grab Joey by the throat and haul him to treatment yourself if that’s what it takes. You’re gonna keep going, and you know what else? You’re not going to expect that it’s all gonna work out in the end, because that’s not life. The world doesn’t owe you anything. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how hard you try, and it doesn’t matter how deep the bullpen is. The Cancer can win. Get over it. Stop asking for more. Be content with what you’ve got: your health, your family and friends––a good job, a roof over your head. Enough food.

But in the spring––hell, as soon as it hits 49 degrees outside–– you put on your ballcap and you have a few beers, and you chat with the neighbors and you like your chances, because when life is warm and good you should damn well appreciate it. Winter will be here soon enough. I don’t care if it’s a Tuesday night, Burriesci, get your ass over here and watch the game with us. What the hell’s wrong with you?

There was always a cheerful fatalism about loving the Cubs. Now we’re just another bunch of champions, and I worry we’re all gonna start expecting things. That’s what gets you into trouble.

I’m looking at you, Boston.