In October of 1984, the Cubs were in the playoffs for the first time in my life. It was a great summer. Ryne Sandberg was the MVP for the National League. Rick Sutcliffe was the Cy Young winner. They Cubs had the best record in the National League, and should have had the home field advantage in the playoffs. However, because they did not have the ability to host a night game, they had to forfeit the advantage to the Padres.
The deciding game was on Sunday, October 7, 1984. It looked like everything was going according to plan. The Cubs were winning 3-2 in the bottom of the seventh.
At this point in the game, I started to worry. I had been watching Cubs baseball for most of my life. I was a die-hard Chicago sports fan, and I had never seen a championship from any of my favorite professional teams. I was not, however, worried about the result of the game. I was afraid that I was going to miss the celebration.
You see, the Cubs game was running late on that Sunday afternoon, and our family always went to the morning and evening worship services at church. We had already attended the morning service, and during the seventh inning, it was time to start getting ready for church. I was not angry about going to church, but I was disappointed that we were going to miss the champagne celebration in the Cubs locker room and the feeling of elation as my favorite team advanced to the World Series.
Just as these thoughts in my mind were escalating my anxiety, my dad turned to me, and said something that I never thought I would hear him say, "Do you want to stay home from church and watch the rest of the game?"
My disappointment was lifted in a moment. I was thrilled as I thought of the display I would witness on TV. The Cubs would win the game and pile on top of each other in a celebration. I would jump up and down in our family living room as the television announcers went into the Cubs locker room and got soaked in the midst of the festivities. Initially, I felt no guilt about skipping church.
That guilt-free feeling changed within a moment of my mom leaving for church. The car was barely out of our driveway, when the unspeakable became a reality. Leon Durham, the Cubs first baseman, (who was supposed to be the game's hero for hitting a two-run homer) botched what seemed to be a routine ground ball, and allowed the tying run to score. By the end of the inning, the Cubs were losing 6-3, and they never recovered.
For years, I had this gnawing sense that I had cost the Cubs the opportunity to go to the World Series. I feared that my decision to skip church had somehow turned around in a justifiable fashion to cause the downfall of my favorite sports team.
My view of God and the call to observe the Sabbath was not fully developed at the age of 14. I had this warped image of God as an all-powerful being who took some kind of delight in punishing me for each of my misdeeds. So when I chose to skip church (and therefore violate the Sabbath) in order to watch the MLB Playoffs, I believed God was justified in punishing me by causing my favorite team to lose. I did not understand that Sabbath keeping was a gift, rather than a chore. It took me a long time to see God as loving and caring, rather than someone who took an almost sadistic delight in enforcing consequences for those who violated His commandments. I had to learn that sabbath keeping was intended to help me develop life-long habits to make space for God in my life that would ultimately benefit me, rather than restrict my personal pleasures on one day a week.
Over the years, that overwhelming sense of guilt has subsided, even though the Cubs have continued to disappoint. I was hopeful in 2003, 2007, and 2008 that the Cubs would end their dry spell. I have witnessed the Bears, Bulls, Blackhawks, and even the White Sox win championships, while the Cubs fans still go without the ultimate celebration. Every time the Cubs come close and fall short, my dad and I will talk about that decision to stay home from church in 1984.
But at least I have grown past my sense of irrational guilt. I can say with confidence that I no longer feel responsible for the Cubs unimaginable streak of unfruitful pursuits of a World Series Championships.
Now I blame my dad...
