Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled...

I wonder what it's like to be a 21-year-old sports fan in Chicago these days. Surely you wouldn't remember it firsthand, but the year you were born, the Bears won the Super Bowl. (Obviously you've heard a little bit about that season--after all, if someone dropped a nuclear bomb on Michigan Avenue this week, the headlines would still be talking about Rex Grossman's mental state).
And in the lifetime of this young fan, there have been seven other world championships bestowed on the city's teams--six by the Bulls, and one the year before last to the White Sox. That makes eight world championships in the lifetime of someone just now legally able to buy his first Old Style.
Let me tell you how it once was. Before I left Chicago, I spent more than 25 years watching the city's main teams--collectively, that's more than 100 pro seasons--and what did I get for it? Two stinkin' championships--the Blackhawks in 1961, and the Bears two years later. And if memory serves correctly, neither one of those games was televised.
Now, you could call this coincidence, but consider that in my time in my current town, Seattle, there has been nary a championship to speak of. We had a baseball team a few years back that set a record by winning 116 games in a single regular season--and didn't even make it to the World Series. Yes, one of those Bulls championships was at the expense of Seattle--the Sonics at least made it to the finals. And the Seahawks went to the Super Bowl last year...where they promptly folded.
So, I believe my personal record of local fandom, ranging from abject failure to maybe-next-year, is something not to be dismissed lightly. Should the Bears win on Sunday, and you feel so giddy as to rub still another championship in my face, let me give you warning.
Do not taunt me, or I swear to God, I WILL move back!

diderot