Oh my God! They killed Cubbies!
I suppose that joke would make more sense if the quartet of Cubs on one of four regional SI Baseball Preview issues had been outfitted in hooded orange parkas, but the karmic effect on the upcoming season will be just as grievous as all manner of mortal injuries that befell young Kenny McCormick on South Park. Thanks a lot, Sport Illustrated. I can only imagine Obama had a hand in this too, Sox fan that he is.
Had it not been frozen immediately after gazing upon Anthony Rizzo, Jason Heyward, Kris Bryant (who looks like a flippin’ giant), and Jake Arrieta beaming out at me from the cover, my Cubbie blue blood would have been pooling around me as the result of this digital paper cut. Surely, nothing but disappointment and disaster can follow such a ringing endorsement.
It was a dozen years ago that Kerry Wood graced the cover of this same venerable publication, accompanied by the title: Hell Freezes Over. The Cubs Will Win the World Series. Not only did the Cubs fail to make the playoffs after a lackluster campaign, but St. Louis remains just as warm as ever.
I don’t care that SI is picking the Astros to win the whole shebang, just the fact that they’re touting the Cubs is enough for me to sell short on the team’s chances. The favorable odds from Vegas and all the various and sundry projection sites are one thing, but this flagrant display of faith is just too much. I mean, it’s as though the folks at SI just walked up to Fate’s breakfast table and peed right in its Cheerios.
So I hope you can forgive me for changing my tune from gleefully optimistic to intractably despondent, but there are just some things you can’t outrun or undo. If you hadn’t already realized the profound impact of SI’s choice, I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to you. Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. I’m glad you were able to hear it from me now instead of spending the next several months having your will broken by the inexorable crush of inevitability’s icy embrace.
Like so many ill-fated travelers along the Oregon Trail, the revelers aboard this overloaded Cubs bandwagon are all doomed. Many will die of dysentery in the desert while still more will drown while fording either the Mississippi, Ohio, Allegheny, or Monongahela Rivers. Some may even perish in the Great Cheddar Swamps of Mill-e-wah-que. Good land, my foot.
As your friend, my only advice to you is to let go of this fever dream of manifest destiny. Give up on the forthcoming season and shield your heart against the doom portended by this omen. You’ll thank me later.