In yet another installment of my life as &uot;Captain Caveman&uot; (gimme remote, Funions Š grunt Š ME WANT NFL SUNDAY TICKET) life between the walls of my lush apartment is getting a little stressed, something the piles and piles of button downs and slacks that lazily adorn my couch know all too well.

Growing up in Baton Rouge the only baseball games I saw on television were either Braves’ or Cubs’ games, from the superstations TBS or WGN, respectively.

I don’t know if it was those hideous powder-blue unis Atlanta wore, which made them look like poorly hidden Easter eggs, or the incomparable Chicago-great Harry Caray, but since I can remember I’ve lived and died with those lovable losers on the Northside, whose mantra has been forever: &uot;Just wait ’til next year.&uot;

Almost routinely, summer dreams, fantasies and pleads with higher powers for the Baby Bears to reach the playoffs, and &045; gasp! &045; possibly, if it isn’t asking a lot, a World Series, were shattered.

What took place Sunday in Atlanta, with the Cubbies and the dominant Kerry Wood closing out the loafing Braves, was the culmination of years of repressed jubilation.

I reached my allotted cell phone minutes for October Sunday &045; THE FIFTH DAY OF THE MONTH &045; with all the calls I placed and received from friends and family, who either have drunk the Cubs’ cyanide Kool-Aid with me or are well aware of my disturbing allegiance.

My parents &045; Papa Bear and Mama Bear &045; and I took a summer vacation in the mid- to late-1980s to St. Louis to catch a weekend series with the Cubs and our bitter rival Cardinals at Busch Stadium.

I won’t go into great detail about the games &045; suffice to say, Chicago got waxed two of three games &045; other than to say Busch is the cleanest facility around.

I spat out a wad of gum and the usher made a diving stab in the hole between the concession stand and the gift shop (surely, a web gem).

The Hallmark moment was heading to this popular player’s restaurant in downtown Lou.

After dragging out a two-plus hour dinner, with salads, appetizers, entrees, dessert and coffee (I’m eight, drinking java &045; no wonder I’m 5’8&uot; in pumps) we’re headed out the door absent of bumping into any Cubs.

Pop pays the bill, I turn to exit, sullen with my tail between my legs, and my Cubs hat bumps into a black-suited brick wall. Turns out it was the torso of my favorite Cub Andre Dawson.

He’s looking for somebody in the room and I’m a statue impeding his path. I nearly tear my father’s right arm off, asking for a paper and pen (I don’t care if it’s a quill and the bark of a tree, ANYTHING!).

Dad grabbed a napkin. Andre signed while he was still scouring the room, and I was pretty sure I was ready to die right then and there.

The Cubs are currently tied with Florida 1-apiece heading into today’s National League Championship Series matchup.

And, if you think I’m content with &uot;waiting ’til next year,&uot; then what Kool-Aid are you drinking?

Chuck Corder

is a sports writer for The Natchez Democrat. You can reach him at (601) 445-3633 or by e-mail at

chuck.corder@natchezdemocrat.

com.