Musings on a World Series Win

I am NOT a baseball fan.

I like hearing baseball on the radio. It reminds me of long trips riding, generally to Kentucky, as a kid. I also like when my father-in-law watches the Braves when we're at the lake in the summer; with its intoxicating blend of chatty announcers, distant organs playing peppy tunes that we all, somehow, know the words to, and the intermittent cracking of wooden bats, the broadcasts sound just like summer nites at my Mayme's house. I even like going to "the ballyard," as Chris Manos used to call it when he'd introduce shows for Atlanta's Theater of the Stars.

But, the truth is, when it comes to what's happening on the field, I could.not.care.less.

Until the Cubs are playing in the World Series, that is.

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I didn't know my Daddaw Phil. I know about him - he looked just like Daddy; he spoiled Bubba (and Mayme and, probably, Jim Bob); as they walked around the town square, he slipped his grandchildren Lifesavers, which the youngest came to call "Chews." He also operated Leslie's Drugstore in the tiny river town that holds my heart - and most of my childhood memories.

Leslie's was a typical Rexall spread. In addition to the "drugs" part of the "drugstore," it, of course, had sundries and a soda fountain. In rural Kentucky, though, Leslie's Drugstore was special. It had all of those things - but it ALSO had the first radio in Greenup, the ONLY radio in Greenup (for a time, anyway). And on that ONLY radio in Greenup, the ONLY team whose game broadcasts came through clearly was the Chicago Cubs.

That meant that, in addition to being a top-notch pharmacist, Phil Leslie was also a raging, major Cubs fan. Greenup's finest would congregate to listen to the games - or stop by to see the scores he'd post on a chalkboard in the drugstore. He passed this fandom down to some members of the family, as surely as he passed on his generous way of spoiling the ones he loved; others picked up his love for the sport but replaced the Cubs with the closer-to-home team Cincinnati Reds.

I didn't really get either - a love for the Cubs OR for baseball. I did, however, always feel like the Cubs were a gateway to get to know the man who'd meant so much to those who mean so much to me.

In 2001, just before my sister gave birth to my second nephew, our family pilgrimaged to Wrigley. I remember seeing the ivy on the outfield wall and feeling, finally, close to him. I felt that same feeling when I gave my first son Phil's middle name, and last nite, as I watched the Cubbies win the World Series for the first time since Daddaw was eight years old, there it was again.

Heavenly visions of a man I never met seemed completely real to me. There he is in his crisply pressed trousers and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He's holding a bottle Coke and beaming like he hadn't done since the day he met his little girl. In that moment, I had to fight the impulse to call him and say, "Daddaw, they DID it!" as if he'd even know who it was on the other end of the line.

In a few years, the family will pilgrimage again to Wrigley - this time, we'll take our Freddie Bear and Phillip Jones Leslie's namesake, Robert Jones Pressley, and when we do, we'll be sure they know why - and in whose honor - we "root, root, root for the Cub-bies!"

Until then, I wanted to write this down, so my boys will always know that, sometimes, sports is about more than fans.

It's about family.
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(Speaking of, my baby cousin BJ is one member of the family to whom Daddaw's Cub-love trickled down. He now lives in Chicago and was at Harry Caray's restaurant last nite to watch the game. In this INCREDIBLE tribute to Harry Caray, BJ makes three appearances. That's almost as exciting to me as last nite's win!)