Ode to a Cub Fan From a Dodger Man

A holy cow has swift-kicked a cursed goat. A rain fell upon a mighty old drought. Little bears turned to young conquerers.

The spirit of a Harry man is prince of bleacher bums no more. For through the canyons of their Chi Town — so long lonesome in October — has blown a wind of winners.

Champions it shouts.

Suffering will descend not upon the browning ivy of baseball’s old lakeside garden. No, not this year. And somehow every fan, no matter what color of Sox or shade of blue in the blood, will give the cub a winter’s corner of the heart. There to curl into hibernation for next year. At last, next year is this year. A curse chased from the American heartland.

And that Harry man in heaven raises a glass. No pestilence does it hold. No emptiness. No, the cow has given some holy elixir. Harry’s Holy Cow, she is dry no more.

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