swept again

(edited to include a video)

by the shores of old Lake Michigan
where the hawk wind blows so cold
an old Cub fan lay dying
in his midnight hour that tolled
around his bed his friends had all gathered
they knew his time was short
and on his head they put this bright blue cap
from his all-time favorite sport
he told them, "it's late, and it's getting dark in here
and I know it's time to go.
but before I leave the lineup
boys, there's just one thing that I'd like to know

do they still play the blues in Chicago
when baseball season rolls around?
when the snow melts away, do the Cubbies still play
in their ivy-covered burial ground?
when I was a boy they were my pride and joy
but now they only bring fatigue
to the home of the brave, the land of the free
and the doormat of the National League."

he told his friends, "you know the law of averages says:
'anything will happen that can'
but the last time the Cubs won a National League pennant
was the year we dropped the bomb on Japan
the Cubs made me a criminal, sent me down a wayward path
they stole my youth from me
I'd forsake my teachers to go sit in the bleachers
in flagrant truancy
then one thing led to another
and soon I discovered alcohol, gambling, dope
football, hockey, lacrosse, tennis, but what do you expect?
when you raise up a young boy's hopes
and then just crush 'em, like so many paper beer cups
year after year after year...
after year, after year, after year, after year, after year
till those hopes are just so much popcorn
for the pigeons beneath the L tracks to eat
you know, I'll never see Wrigley Field any more
before my eternal rest
so if you have your pencils and your score cards ready
I'll read you my last request:

give me a double-header funeral in Wrigley Field
on some sunny weekend day--no lights!
have the organ play the National Anthem
then a little 'nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye'
make six bullpen pitchers carry my coffin
and six groundskeepers clear my path
have the umpires bark me out at every base
in all their holy wrath
it's a beautiful day for a funeral
hey Ernie, let's play two!
somebody go get Jack Brickhouse to come back
and conduct just one more interview
have the Cubbies run right out into the middle of the field
have Keith Moreland drop a routine fly
give everybody two bags of peanuts and a frosty malt
and I'll be ready to die

build a big fire on home plate out of your Louisville slugger baseball bats
and toss my coffin in
let my ashes blow in the beautiful snow
from the prevailing 30-mile-an-hour southwest wind
and when my last remains go flying over the left field wall
I will bid the bleacher bums 'adieu'
and I will come to my final resting place
out on Waveland Avenue."

the dying man's friends told him to cut it out
"stop it, that's an awful shame!"
he whispered, "don't cry, we'll meet by and by
near the heavenly Hall of Fame.
I've got season tickets to watch the Angels now
so that's just what I'm gonna do
but you, the living, you're stuck here with the Cubs
so it's me that feels sorry for you!
so play that lonesome losers tune
that's the one I like the best."
he closed his eyes and slipped away
and that was the dying Cub fan's last request:

do they still play the blues in Chicago
when baseball season rolls around?
when the snow melts away, do the Cubbies still play
in their ivy-covered burial ground?
when I was a boy they were my pride and joy
but now they only bring fatigue
to the home of the brave, the land of the free
and the doormat of the National League.

I really can't say it any better than Steve Goodman.



[P.S. Tom Hanks famously said in A League Of Their Own: "There's no crying in baseball!" I should listen to Tom Hanks more often.]