We Finally Won the Big One

GAME EIGHT

We Finally Won the Big One

I’m sitting in a hospital in Glenview, Illinois, with my grandfather, Bill, who is more than likely dying. He’s ninety-five years old with a weak heart after suffering his third heart-attack. They have him stable, but the doctor told me he didn’t think Gramps had long to live.

We’re watching a Chicago Cub’s game on television – the Cubs are pounding the White Sox in the cross-town classic. After the game Gramps shuts off the television and begins a conversation.

“I was there you know, Bill,” he says to me quietly.

“Where’s that, Gramps,” I asked.

“Wrigley, the night after they won the World Series against the Indians ten years ago.”

“What were you doing there then?” I asked him. I was sure Wrigley was locked up tighter than a drum, as the Cubs were in Cleveland when they won game 7 of that series.

He had been a fireman most of his life and as luck would have it, had been assigned to Engine Company 78 on Waveland Avenue, right across the street from Wrigley Field where the Cubs played their home games.

“I stopped in to see the boys at the station and when I went to leave and I noticed the lights were on at the diamond.  I snuck in through the door in left field that they always leave open for the fire department.?

He stopped for a few minutes as he was laboring to breathe. I told him we didn’t have to talk and that he just needed to rest. As you can imagine that advice didn’t go over well as he shot me a dirty look.

“There was a small crowd there of elderly people there watching a game. I was struck how old they seemed to be, many of them older than me. Not a kid or young man in sight. I was eighty-five then, you know.”

“Yep.”

“I sat down and began watching the game. Imagine my surprise when I noticed the Cubs were playing the Cleveland Indians again.”

I was not aware there had been another game the night after they won the Series. In fact, I doubted it, and wondered if Gramps was starting to lose it. I decided not to interrupt him and see where this was going.

“As I studied the players on the Cubs, I was shocked.”

“Why’s that, Gramps?”

“It wasn’t the 2016 Cubs players – it was Cubs greats going back a hundred years facing the 2016 Indians.”

“Come again!”

“You heard me right. Somehow, Cubs greats going back a hundred years were playing the Indians.

Yep, I figured, he was definitely losing it.

“Who was playing for the Cubs?” I asked.

“All the Cubs greats.”

“Such as?”

“Well, let’s see if I can recall who was playing that night. Mr. Cub was at short.”

He meant Ernie Banks, of course.

“Hornsby was at second. Cavarretta at first. Stan Hack at third – my favorite, you know that. Gabby Hartnett behind the plate. Sauer in left, Hack Wilson in center, Nicholson in right. That boy had a shotgun for an arm, Billy.”

“Who was pitching?” I asked.

“Grover Cleveland Alexander,” he said without hesitation. “And I saw Three Finger Brown and Charlie Root warming up in the bullpen.”

He paused, catching his breath.

“Funny thing occurred to me as I sat there among all those old-timers,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He looked at me then, really looked at me.

“Every one of those players was dead,” he said quietly. “And not a single one of them had ever won a World Series as a Cub.”

I raised my eyebrows. This story was bordering on more like a dream.

“Those Cubbies won that game, 8-7 too” Gramps said. “Those boys celebrated as if they had also beaten the Indians in the seventh game of a World Series. It was magical, Billy.”

“Any major highlights?” I asked, playing along.

“Sure was…”

A coughing spell ensued lasting minutes. His face reddened and I thought I notice blood on his hand where he covered his mouth.

“Banks was the star of that game. Had three hits and one dinger, as well as playing the finest shortstop I ever saw.”

“Can you remember the last play of the game?” I asked.

“Sure, I can. A weak grounder to Hack at third and a great throw across the diamond to Cavvy to get the runner in plenty of time.”

It occurred to me that was exactly how the 2016 Cubs won the final game against Cleveland the night before. A weak grounder to Kris Bryant at third with a nice throw to Anthony Rizzo at first base, breaking the 108-year-old drought of winning a World Series.

“It was as if the Baseball Gods were giving those boys a shot at those same Indians to even some sort of score,” Gramps said weakly.

He was getting tired. The heart monitor seemed to have slowed as well. I watched as he fell asleep, a smile on his face.

I sat there about an hour more watching the Cub’s post-game score. All of a sudden the heart monitor went flat and a flurry of hospital nurses came busting through the door. I was asked to leave the room so they could work on him.

I watched a doctor hurry into the room. Pretty soon he came back out to tell me Gramps had passed away and that he was sorry.

I called my dad to tell him and let the rest of the family know. They would all be there within the hour. Then I went to the waiting room while they removed Gramps’ body and cleaned the room. I cried a little, Gramps and I had always been close due to our love of the Chicago Cubs. When they were done they came back to let me know I could collect up his belongings.

I found an old, battered suitcase to put his things in it. When I opened the suitcase a piece of cardboard fell to the floor. I picked it up, noticing it was a box score from Wrigley. I opened it and was shocked to see he had actually kept track of the game with this scorecard in his neat, meticulous handwriting. I studied it and saw that Banks had indeed had three hits and one homer.

As I was returning the box score to the suitcase I noticed it had been autographed on the back by Stan Hack, his favorite player. Hack had scribbled something underneath his name. I held it up to the light to read. Handwriting was certainly not Hack’s strong suit, but it said something that shocked me, but I made it out.

I read it again, just to be sure.

We finally won the big one, Billy.