We’re Totally Gonna Pull It Off Bro. Most likely a Cubs fan, this person will explain how being seven games out is okay, because there’s, what, like 50 games left? And 50 is more than seven, right? Right indeed, young Brosepher. And remember, Billy Bro-cean, transfer back to the Blue Line at Jackson, not Washington. It’s Gonna Happen.
I Can’t Believe These Tickets Were So Cheap. The casual observer, and either an indifferent Cubs fan or a Sox fan with a life. Both teams playing such forgettable baseball, it’s hard to blame either for not noticing or not caring. Day game or not, these people will be gone by the seventh.
God I Hate Being A Baseball Fan. Could be a fan of either team, really. Will sit quietly, stewing over the fact their team is so bad and they couldn’t find anyone to take their tickets off their hands. Their team could be up by six, and it would be viewed with equal skepticism and derision as if they were down by nine. When they get angry today, they’re actually expressing frustration over the past five months’ worth of terrible baseball by their terrible team.
Wrigley Field can be a cold place sometimes, but as summer fades away the Friendly Confines become, for an afternoon, just that: two rival camps, long separated by deep-seated animosity and generations of petty hatred united in misery, each hoping to inflict one last ounce of pain on the other and both wishing this would all just end. One side wins, but both still walk away in defeat.