The soul of a Chicago sports fan
Growing up a Chicago sports fan is a humbling addiction.
I’ve been hooked since the day my dad first took the family to a White Sox game at old Comiskey Park, when my little sister, who was used to watching the games on a black-and-white TV with snowy UHF reception, pronounced: “Look, the game is in color!” I’ve been absolutely hooked ever since I watched my first Blackhawks game at Chicago Stadium that got knocked down. In a previous article, I tried to describe the ephemeral power that music has on our soul, that is, the power to transform our emotional state and take us to another place. For better or worse, sport has a similar transformative capacity.
Growing up, my dad shared season tickets for a year or two to Chicago Blackhawks hockey games. It was during this period that I was able to enjoy the true beauty of hockey (along with 20,000 rowdy fans). The momentum of the game can change in an instant; a strong control or defensive play often means more than a great offensive pass or shot. That’s what I love about hockey. More than any other sport, it’s the seemingly minor elements that have so much impact on the current momentum and bottom line. Also, the old Chicago stadium (it was old even then because it was built in 1929) literally shook with every big pass or star defensive play. No doubt he was shaken even more when the home team scored, aided by the endless baritone tone of the massive 3,663-pipe Barton organ signaling a goal. Like a music club, the Chicago stadium was a sensual temple that teased the senses, addicted attendees and begged them to seek ever higher levels of pleasure.
Unfortunately, the Blackhawks failed to win the Stanley Cup. Although they had tremendous teams in the heyday of my childhood in the late ’60s and early ’70s, with the likes of Bobby Hull, Tony Esposito, Stan Mikita and Pit Martin, they failed to win the Cup. The most memorable and heartbreaking thing was that they lost Game 7 at home to the Montreal Canadiens in 1971 after leading the game 2-0 late in the second period. A fluke goal from the center line by Jacques Lemaire past Tony O, cut the lead to 1 goal and gave the Canadians the aforementioned boost they desperately needed. They eventually beat the Hawks 3-2 to win another Stanley Cup.
Listening to those games on the radio as described by Lloyd Petit’s wonderful work, play by play, I was emotionally drained. At that time he was not just a fan, but a member of the team, my emotions rose and fell faster than Jacques Lemaire’s shot. He was only eleven years old, but he often felt that my emotional commitment exceeded that of most players or management.
Unfortunately, once again, being a Chicago sports fan will take you to emotional depths. Not just the endless failure of my beloved hockey team, but a collective failure to “win the big one” by most Chicago sports teams. Yes, it is true that the Chicago Bears, under the tutelage of Mike Ditka, broke the streak in the 1985-1986 season. But let’s not forget that the Bears should have won at least two more Super Bowls in the ’80s. Thank you Charles Martin of the Packers for hitting Jim McMahon to the body in 1986 and dashing any hope of a repeat Super Bowl victory. And it’s true that the Chicago Bulls won big in the ’90s under the expert guidance of Phil Jackson and the magic of Michael Jordan. However, let’s not forget the 1975 Western Conference finals when the Bulls stole home-field advantage, going 3 games to 2, but losing the next two games to the eventual champion Golden State Warriors.
The Cubs deserve a full chapter, but let me mention a couple of years and names: 1984, Leon Durham; 2003 Steve Bartman. Enough talk.
As for my other favorite team, the White Sox, they at least broke their long drought by winning the World Series in 2005, the first time since 1917. The 1983 playoffs, though, with names like Britt Burns, Tito Landrum and Jerry Dybzinski will forever haunt Red Sox fans.
Goal, back to hockey. In 1991, my wife and I had just moved from Chicago to San Antonio. During the Blackhawks’ amazing playoff run during the strike-shortened 1991-92 season, culminating in a visit to the Stanley Cup Finals, we watched every playoff game at the local sports bar. There was no other place to get the TV signal. It became our routine. Every other night, the Hawks played, and we would gather at the bar right after work, enjoy a cool drink in the scorching South Texas heat, and whoop and shout for victory. For eleven straight playoff games, the Hawks did just that. Until they reached the final against the Pittsburgh Penguins. Twenty years after the dashed dreams of ’71, I sit in a sports bar in a foreign city, mentally transported back to those very days. I’m back to that eleven-year-old boy whose breathing moment, whose emotional ebb and flow, revolves around the success of his hockey team.
Instead of names like Jacques Lemaire, Ken Dryden, Henri Richard, and Yvan Cournoyer stealing my dreams, names like Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr haunt my reality. On the bright side, Belfour, Roenick and Chelios have replaced Esposito, Hull and Mikita. However, the different names do not produce a different result. In Game 1, the Hawks squander a 3-0, 4-1 lead. I implore Eddie Belfour to keep the record, but to no avail. Hitting a rebound, Mr. Lemieux scores the game-winner with 10 seconds remaining to lead the Penguins to an incredible 5-4 victory. Pittsburgh uses this early momentum from game 1 to sweep the Hawks 4 games to nil and win the Stanley Cup (although the series actually came closer than the score might indicate).
Chicago loses again and I am devastated once again. I get rid of my addiction. After all, how silly is it to let your soul ride the wings of a sports team? I stand by my promise and stay away from this drug. Then spring training, minicamp, or preseason starts all over again, and I fall off the sports bandwagon to be chased forever by an opposing team’s final scoring second.