The Curse of the Billy Goat and Other Amusing Tales from the Supernatural
I have developed a sick habit of late that involves me harassing friends and associates by assigning them random teams in sporting competitions from around the globe and then inundating them with information and random facts about said team until that person feels some intense connection with them. It is a perverted way to pass the time but no more perverted than collecting Meatloaf albums or abseiling so I figure I am ahead of the count by nearly anybody’s math. And Pavlov would no doubt have been most interested in the results. He got his kicks out of habit and manipulating the environment and would no doubt have been keen to drink heavily with me while we discussed heartily the results of my unofficial study.
The most successful of these experiments has been Boss and his now sordid love affair with the Washington Nationals. Boss, as previously noted, is a man of fine stock with the peculiar tendency to not gamble very often. He, at one point, claimed to be a fan of the Colorado Rockies when it came to the world of professional baseball. Not anymore, Ginger. After reading him the box scores and providing updates on the standings and forcing him to listen to tidbits of information about the Nationals on a daily basis, he was soon gushing like a lonely internet cowboy in pursuit of love. Boss was also talked into loving pitcher Mike Baczik- the ugliest man in baseball- which worked out rather well considering he ended up being the hurler when Barry Bonds hit number 756. Boss was in tears the next day as he read the New York Times story proclaiming “A special moment for a not very special pitcher”.
It is a highly enjoyable pastime and comes recommended for anybody with a healthy knowledge of sports and plenty of time on their hands.
And so it was that I came to be talking to Dougie, a man as obsessed with statistics and history as anybody I have ever known. He also has quite large sadomasochistic tendencies, having once supported the North Sydney Bears and then giving himself to the South Sydney Rabbitohs. He has also gotten behind such star-crossed teams as the Sydney Swans and Indianapolis Colts. Things have changed in both Sydney and Indianapolis in recent times but it doesn’t take away from the fact that he is a man who likes to feel down and out and as low as a crooked cop when it comes to sports. Maybe not on any visible level but deep down, it was and is there. He wouldn’t want a winner. He wanted a loser. And there is no bigger loser in professional baseball than the Chicago Cubs.
It is impossible to hate the Chicago Cubs. These days, anyway. They play at one of the most picturesque ballparks in the world. And it is highly entertaining looking on from afar as they find more brilliant and entertaining ways to lose.
The reason for such despair and mediocrity is very simple. The Cubs are cursed and they will be until there are genuine attempts by the organisation to remove the hex. The curse was placed in 1945 and has held true since and there is no reason to suggest it will evaporate now or anytime soon. They call it the Curse of the Billy Goat and the sheer mention of it in the northern parts of the Windy City will send women into a teary panic and children into fits of animalistic screaming. They know how this thing rolls and the fear they get when it is bought to the forefront of consciousness causes strange and weird behaviour.
The curse was placed when a local tavern owner named Billy Sianis was ejected from Wrigley Field along with his pet goat Murphy. It was game four of the World Series and Sianis, who had two box seat tickets, decided a day at Wrigley would be good for Murphy. Wrigley Field officials let both in and the two even paraded on the field beforehand with Murphy donning a dashing rug proclaiming “We got Detroit’s goat”. The odour of the goat became quite overwhelming, by all reports, and Cubs owner Phillip Knight Wrigley had the two ejected from the ballgame. Sianis was none too pleased with his removal from the ground and placed a curse on the Cubs as he left Wrigley, declaring the Cubs would never win another pennant and play in a World Series at Wrigley again.
The Cubs, of course, have not won a pennant since. Attempts have been made to break the curse but all have failed, even attempts to have the descendants of Billy Sianis come onto the field with a goat of some randomness have offered no respite. The Bartman incident in 2004, where a Cubs fan interfered with a play that wound up costing his team a game in the National League Championship Series, shows the curse is still alive and well and doing everything it can to prevent Cubs glory. According to the nephew of Billy Sianis, the curse can only be dispelled when the Chicago Cubs organisation shows some true affection for goats and allowing them into Wrigley Field.
These kinds of tales amuse me no end. Wild stories about perennial failure and crippling defeat and mind-shattering mediocrity and the reasons for same never cease to raise a smile. These curses are real because people believe them to be real and all these hexes, named or unnamed, continue on because of this belief. It is self-fulfilling and there is nothing like watching the cycle spin around and around and around.
Red Sox fans believed for 86 years in the Curse of the Bambino and bought such bad luck to Boston that it is surprising that it is not the suicide capital of the world. Cronulla can’t win a premiership because every player, coach and fan believes the place is jinxed and it is an inevitability that they will fail. All of Philadelphia sports are haunted by the Curse of Billy Penn while the city of Buffalo blames the assassination of President William McKinley for their poor sports fortunes. Geelong residents blame some evil force for their constant finals failings. Perhaps it is Harold Holt’s fault. Hell, the Hanshin Tigers fanbase blame Colonel Sanders- of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame- for the failure of their side. Of course, it all derived from blatant racism but that is neither here nor there in Osaka where the Colonel instills plenty of concern into the local residents.
I am a winner and prefer not to be associated with too many curses. It is a personal policy I adhere to rather strictly. I support Richmond but they are the only real losers I choose to keep company with. Canterbury are great winners and always will be. I fell in love with the Niners because I fell in love with the greatness of Steve Young and Joe Montana and Jerry Rice I was much more engrossed by the winning legend of the Yankees- tales of the Babe and Joltin’ Joe and Gehrig and Scooter and Mickey and Thruman – than I was by loser teams like the Red Sox, the White Sox and the Cubs. It was no doubt attaching myself to a galloping bandwagon but every Yankees fan born outside the Bronx or Manhattan post-1920 is nothing but a bandwagon hustler. And it is nothing to be ashamed of because we are all winners and that is a hell of a lot better than going through life as a loser.
We have rambled today but so be it. We have all learned something and that is very important in these days of blinkered education and misinformation. Vaya con Dios.