There IS Crying in Baseball: What the 2016 Cubs Taught Me about my Relationship with my Dad

It's opening day for the 2024 Chicago Cubs, but my heart will always be on the field in 2016.

Me and Dad at Spring Training in Arizona in 2019

I was 15 when I had my heart broken for the first time. Who did the damage and the details don’t matter—I’ve forgotten most of them anyway. Just know that I was young and hormonal and learning just how capable I was of crying over something that wouldn’t really matter in the long run.

In the aftermath, Dad drove me across town to my best friend’s house in what would’ve been silence had I not been blowing my nose into take-out napkins. When we reached our destination, Dad threw the car in park and hit me with his best effort at empathy: the heartbreaking story of how he didn’t make varsity basketball when he was my age. Needless to say, I cried harder. Like any 15-year-old, I thought my parents just didn’t understand.

My dad doesn’t really do feelings as well as he does sports. The man rarely dabbles in emotions that don’t involve laughter, which ruled out most of what I was feeling between the ages of 12 and 19. Instead of connecting on an emotional level, he and I bonded by sticking to the things we had in common: a love of sitcoms and the Chicago Cubs. 

Dad is one of the biggest Cubs fans I know, second only to his own dad, who has barely missed a game since his tour in Korea. For Papa, Cubs games are like church on Sunday mornings: you better not miss it, and you better not talk through it. Dad grew up watching every black and white inning on the HMV Dual Standard that my grandparents kept way too late into the 90’s. The first time Papa brought him to Wrigley Field, Dad couldn’t believe how colorful it was, all the ivy and the uniforms and the old school scoreboard. He still talks about that game, his first game at Wrigley, like he had seen God out on the pitcher’s mound that day. 

Me and Dad at Wrigley Field in 2014

The difference between me and my dad is that he loved baseball from the get-go. As a kid, Dad played slow-pitch with his neighbors in the lot between their houses, then moved up to little league and eventually his high school team, so watching ball games was an obvious part of his lifestyle. I, on the other hand, can swing a bat about as well as a dog can baste a turkey, which means watching a Cubs game takes a lot more discipline. 

“All the things that make me a terrible baseball player make me an incredible baseball fan.”

My title as “most often benched on my gym class team” was not for a lack of trying on my part or my dad’s. I grew up hitting (read: missing) whiffle balls Dad pitched to me in our backyard almost every summer night. He would set goals for me—when you hit five pitches in a row, we can go inside. The sky would shift from blue to violet while I was still swinging at air, getting pinker in the face with every miss. Some nights I’d hit my goal before it got dark; most nights I didn’t even come close. Either way, Dad always seemed to believe I could do it, even when I had nothing but strikes by the time the stars poked through.

Dad wanted to believe his way to an athletic daughter, but I was a lost cause. Perpetually overweight and intensely opposed to any kind of competition where I was not guaranteed to win, I wasn’t cut out for the big leagues—or any league, for that matter. When it got too dark, we’d put the bat and ball back in the garage and return to our respective spots in the family room: him on the couch, me sitting sideways in my favorite armchair with my legs draped over the arm, giving in to an evening of sitcom reruns. 

The good news for both of us is that all the things that make me a terrible baseball player make me an incredible baseball fan. I’m not much of a runner, meaning I have no problem gluing my butt to the stands long into extra innings. My quick temper has me on my feet the second an ump makes a bad call, and since I’m easily distracted, I’m the first to take my eyes off the game to spot a beer vendor within earshot. I may have been picked last in gym class, but I’ve swung at enough pitches to care about technique, and I’ve sat through enough Cubs games on WGN to understand the rules and memorize most of the players’ numbers. Intentionally or not, Dad trained me to be the perfect date to Wrigley Field. Growing up, he used to pull me from school once a year for a game, and to this day, we have never been in the stands for a Cubs loss. Considering their record, that’s saying a lot.

“The Cubs weren’t the only ones having a big year in 2016. I was entering my last year of college, and I didn’t know where I’d end up after graduation. I had big dreams of heading west, which would put me two time zones away from my parents, my grandparents, and my favorite baseball team.”

After years of high hopes and low RBIs, 2016 felt like our year. Granted, we thought most years were our year, but that team just felt electric. It was Maddon’s second season as manager, and we made it to the playoffs the previous year. There was something magical about our lineup that we hadn’t seen since pre-steroids scandal Sosa in 2007. Plus my family and I are pretty unapologetically superstitious, and 2016 was the address of our house, so we were feeling pretty confident. 

Dad and Papa, rooting for the best team in the National League in October 2016.

The Cubs weren’t the only ones having a big year in 2016. I was entering my last year of college, and I didn’t know where I’d end up after graduation. I had big dreams of heading west, which would put me two time zones away from my parents, my grandparents, and my favorite baseball team. Between my internship and my dad driving back and forth to Wisconsin to visit Papa in the hospital, we didn’t make it out to Wrigley the summer of 2016. Our tradition had ended a year sooner than I expected.

I tried to play it cool, like I wasn’t super sentimental about the whole thing, but missing our annual trip to Wrigley meant missing out on a lot of memories with my dad. We were always reminiscing on the year we saw a naked guy standing on his porch on Halsted or the father and son from Ontario who filmed us singing “Go Cubs Go” after the winning run. On the rare occasion that Dad and I were both home that summer, we sat in the family room—him on the couch, me in my favorite armchair with my legs draped over the side—with eyes glued to a DVR recording of last night’s game. 

“This was the thing Dad, Papa, and I had been waiting for all our lives. I didn’t want to spoil it with feelings.”

The Cubs didn’t miss us though, and their stellar season carried into the fall. When I went back for my last year of college, Dad and I talked every other week or so, discussing particularly good plays. When the Cubs made it to the postseason, I tried not to get excited, but when our Cubbies clinched the National League Championship Series, I just about tore a vocal cord. I called Dad right away, but he didn’t pick up, so I tried Papa. I could hear him smiling through the phone from his hospital bed in Wisconsin. 

“I couldn’t get a hold of Dad,” I said, catching my breath.

“He’s at the game,” Papa said. 

My stomach ice cream scooped itself. Dad went to the last game of the NLCS and hadn’t even mentioned it to me. I took a few deep breaths and finished up my phone call with Papa. Wrapping my W flag around my shoulders, equal parts security blanket and superhero cape, I felt the same way I felt in that car ride when I was 15: heartbroken and unsure if Dad would even get it. He called me back later that night, but I let it ring. Next stop, the Series. 

Game seven fell on the same night I as a concert I was seeing in Chicago. It was raining on and off the whole evening, making the drive into the city a bitch and a half. Dad texted me a few hours before, betting on whether Rizzo or Baez would score first. I hadn’t talked to him much since the NLCS game, afraid I’d say something passive aggressive about him going without me. I was glad that he was there; I just wished I would’ve been there with him. But it didn’t feel right to sour the mood. This was the thing Dad, Papa, and I had been waiting for all our lives. I didn’t want to spoil it with feelings. 

The concert shared my attention with the pitch-by-pitch updates on the ESPN app as I followed our healthy lead over Cleveland. I stopped checking the score during the four block walk back to my car, and by the time I put the keys in the ignition, Cleveland had somehow tied it up. My pride sunk to my heels and I floored it back to Indiana. I needed to watch this live, and win or lose, the city was about to be the epicenter of the chaos. 

The rain did me a solid by delaying the game before extra innings, giving me enough time to get home before missing too much more. I pulled up a stream of the game on my cable-less TV and climbed into an armchair, draping my legs over the arm. 

I heard the screams from down the block before the lagging stream caught up. I knew before I saw it happen, and when the players charged the field, my scream joined the chorus. We won. My roommates laughed as I flailed and let out a raw-throated shriek, running laps around the apartment and eventually down the street. We won. I ran back inside and popped open a bottle of cheap champagne. We won. We actually did it.

I grabbed my phone with shaking hands. I called my dad. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been to Wrigley that summer. It didn’t matter that he’d gone to the game without me. I could waste my time moping over something that wouldn’t matter in the long run, or I could let tonight give us plenty to talk about for decades. When Dad picked up the phone, he was already crying. I had never heard him cry before.

We sat on the phone for almost an hour, crying together.

That night, we did feelings and sports.