Impressions on the weekend series with the White Sox, fair and balanced.
A dark cloud of fierce savagery envelops the city; mothers run frantically for safety clutching their shrieking babies, sirens wail in the background as icy-eyed men prowl the streets. The river bubbles with madness as the fair city of Chicago chooses sides and draw lines as the Cubs and Sox continue their epic battle for Baseball Supremacy.
The green pasture of Wrigley Field sets the scene for the Friday afternoon start to the series. With the weaselly Pierzynski tethered to the bench for the opener, Toby Hall was presented with the perfect opportunity to showcase his infinite mediocrity. At the precise juncture of the game when all that was required of him was to make a few routine plays to close out the game, Mr. Hall committed a series of supreme botchery's. Vain attempt to catch the ball followed by vain attempt to throw the ball followed by another vain attempt to throw the ball, unearned run after unearned run pouring in as he stood at home plate watching in embarrassment as his teammates chased down another one of his errant throws. Failure of this magnitude does not go unrecognized.
For his transgressions a mighty and eternal curse shall follow Mr. Hall to his lonely, unmarked grave. May he spend the rest of his shame filled days living in caves and ditches, foraging for raccoon droppings and praying that no one should discover him and his feeble clan. For the curse is hereditary, handed down from generation to generation like heart disease or cystic fibrosis, so his children and his children’s children shall never know a moment that’s not overcast and filled with the perverse disgust of predetermined disappointment until their spineless tribe dies off due to excessive inbreeding and vitamin deficiency.
But those are the stakes, and Saturday’s game will provide another stage for hero’s to emerge and outcasts identified, for statues erected and effigies burned…
Saturday was a back and forth affair, the contest perpetually hanging in the balance, tipping towards one direction only to be redirected in the opposite direction a moment later. The game called out for a champion, a man of undeniable skill and baseball expertise to put his mark upon the game and tip the scales in his teams favor.
The pitiful cretins from the netherworld had seemingly swung momentum in their favor by hitting unanswered HR's in the 6th and 8th innings. The inbred and uncouth amongst the capacity Wrigley crowd were drooling with vengeful anticipation from yesterday’s embarrassment. As the Orc army stomped at the gates, the tortured fan base of Wrigley found themselves imagining seemingly improbable victory scenarios when an ill fated reliever of yesteryear jumped up in the right field bull-pen.
As the darkly clad forces of evil celebrated a Konerko homer and taunted the blue faithful, not a creature dared move from their plastic and steel domains (except maybe to get another beer before the cut off). The instinctive turning of the rally hat swept through the crowd as newly purchased blue talismans were inverted. 
The tarnished ghost of a forgotten multi-vowelled reliever took his perch on the mound. Ryan Theriot took a called strike and the tension was broken as the next pitch was sliced into right field while Theriot darted instantaneously into third base.
Then something remarkable happened- Cubs fans shook off recent humiliation and roared to attention. Feeding off the energy of the crowd, Soriano drove his first pitch to score Theriot as the tying run. The crowd, still cheering for Soriano’s hit, could barely comprehend that Ramirez had just slapped the next pitch into the right field corner while a blue pinstriped blur raced around second base. Soriano flew past third and as he slid home to take the lead, Wrigley transmogrified. The Boo-birds were gone, no one needed Prior or Wood anymore, the Sosa wounds and NLCS scars were healed, and the rejuvenated heart of a team and its tortured fan base emerged.
The Cubs loaded the bases with another hit and a walk. Jacque Jones half-heartedly swung his bat at the on-deck circle while the Sox lefty reliever warmed-up. When the massive figure of baseball deity Derek Lee emerged from the dugout to pinch-hit, it dawned on Cubs and Sox fans alike, that they were in for a special at bat. The crowd roared in anticipation as Derek Lee, a creature of thunderous strength and benevolent nature, strode to the plate. After wailing comically at the first pitch, Mr. Lee eyed the next three pitches with the cool, calculated calmness of a gladiator called up from his secret mystical lair to slay the unrepentant demon beast that is the Sox franchise. The unfortunate lefty, Boone Logan, mistook his calmness for rustiness and tried, on that fifth pitch, to sneak a hittable pitch over the plate. 
With one mighty swing of the bat Derek elevated the mood and decibel level of the Wrigley faithful to hysterical new heights while simultaneously casting the dirty Sox down into the dark, rat infested, feces strewn hole where vindictive losers rightfully reside.
With a three game sweep of the Sox on the line, the weather and mood for the Sunday final stood in marked contrast to the previous two games. A raw, blustery day with a dark unrelenting breeze shivering in from the east, it wasn’t a good day for baseball. The forces of evil were in full force in Wrigleyville that day. Puppies were stolen, boxes of flowers kicked over, beers spilled, elderly mocked, and A.J. slapped a ball into the bleachers for a grand slam to highlight an eight run 7th. The Cubs managed to get four of those runs back in the bottom of the eighth setting the stage for a possible rally in the 9th.
Then that great big gob a goo the Sox use as a closer, Bobby Jenks, waddled and jiggled towards the pitchers mound leaving a trail of ooze and Twinkie wrappers in his wake. The beauty of Wrigley field stood in stark contrast with that amorphous blob that stationed itself on the pitchers mound. Jenks took advantage of the donut jelly and fried chicken grease seeping from his every pore to squeeze some baseballs past the cub’s bats and salvage a game for the roustabouts in grey.
The war is never won but only prolonged and strengthened with every battle. Eternal and everlasting victory was never even an option, but a wound was inflicted and despite the inevitable healing the scars will always remain. June 22nd -24th awaits.