Those Cubs are cursed

Who’s into genealogy around here? I got one for you. Find me the tree of a fella named Billy Sianis. He’s a Midwesterner who owned a tavern in Chicago and a now infamous goat.

Trickle down twig to twig, leaf to leaf and see if you locate a 26-year-old, beer-drenched dope named Steve Bartman.

Before Tuesday, baseball eggheads associated Cubs’ futility with the legendary tall tale of Sianis, who cursed Chicago’s lovable losers after being shown the gate at Wrigley despite having box seats for himself and the four-legged lawnmower to the 1945 World Series between the Cubs and Detroit Tigers.

Sianis can now thank the Jared from Subway look-alike Bartman, who is a consultant in the Second City suburbs, for getting him off the hook in Cubs’ immortality.

Although most Cub fans, such as yours truly, will chalk up Bartman’s bonehead maneuver of interfering with a pop-up that was destined to fall in left fielder Moises Alou’s glove, as part of the curse.

Either way, the goat &045; for the moment, at least &045; is now Bartman.

Hey Bart, hows about ya quit listening to Billy Joel in those headphones, check your left and see that a surehanded gold glover is about to give you reason to cheer.

Let me tell you this, because after last week you have a small window into my steadfastness in this voodooed organization.

Throughout Tuesday night, I had the game on in the background while I banged away at the keyboard.

I celebrated the three Chicago runs, and felt so comfortable in my World Series digs that I actually slithered my arm to the back of the fridge and broke out the champagne &045; OK, so it was an 187 milliliter thimble of some knockoff called Cook’s that I got as a stocking stuffer, but it had bubbles all right.

But when Bernie Mac starting shouting, &uot;Root, root for the CHAMPS,&uot; in place of the accustomed &uot;Cubbies&uot; for the singing of the &uot;Seventh inning stretch,&uot; I placed the laptop back on the countertop and began shaking my head.

I broke out in cold sweats, I gnawed my fingernails to the quick and paced frantically.

And then the bottom dropped out: Bartman’s befuddling blow, Alex Gonzales’ bobbling of a tailor-made double play and the snowman Florida put up in the eighth to steal the momentum and, ultimately, the series.

It was quicksand, a vortex that Cub players, coaches and fans could not grasp hold to in order to save our poor, pitiful lives.

When Florida made the final out Tuesday, I talked with several of my Cub diehard pals, and we all came to this conclusion: &uot;We got no chance. In Game 7 we’re goat cheese pizza.&uot;

It didn’t get better Wednesday when Billy Corgan, the lead singer of the Smashing Pumpkins no less, serenaded us with the &uot;Stretch.&uot;

I will root, root for the Cubbies until I take that big hibernation in the sky, but I will never believe in a World Series, not as long as the Northsiders baaaaaatle figurative and literal goats.

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.