Underdog

Underdog

“The waters wear the stones.” –Job. XIV. 19

The problem is, I’ve always rooted for the underdog. The scrappy, stubborn, sneaky underdog who always gets back up and never throws in the towel. Pick a cliché; if it involves underdogs, I’m digging it. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen Rocky too many times. Maybe because I’m a not-afraid-to-cry romantic who still believes in The American Dream. Maybe because I’m just a stubborn little bull of a man who loves other stubborn little bulls that never stop charging at the giants. Maybe it’s just because I’m a Cubs fan, but whatever the cause, it’s a problem. Because this guy is beating the shit out of me. Look, I know how to use the word literally, and I mean literally. There is crap in my pants.

              But I just won’t stay down.

              I have thoroughly convinced myself that 2003 is my year. I moved out of Mom’s house, and got a nice little place close by. I got promoted to nighttime manager at the convenience store I basically grew up in. And the Cubs, oh boy my Cubs. We took the NL Central for the first time by a game over the Astros (I can’t prove it, but I swear they are no good cheaters who should just leave the division, maybe even the league- we don’t need six teams and they aren’t located anywhere near the rest of us) with a solid 88-74 record. Our roster is stacked and we were hot going into the postseason. The adorable little Cubbies have turned into a fierce, mauling monster. And then it started happening. We starting winning playoff games. No choking. No curses. No crap. First the Braves with their dumbass tomahawk chop. Isn’t that sorta racist? Our first postseason series win since 1908. It’s happening. We lost a heartbreaker 9-8 to some start up club called the Florida Marlins. I assume they won’t even be around for long. Sounds like a team from that Back to the Future movie. Okay, ’91 was a while ago, but still. They don’t feel like a real team to me. Anyway, we lost that heartbreaker, but then crushed them in game 2. Then we won a close one in their house in front of both their fans. I kid, I kid. And then we took game 4 as well. One more to go baby. We got this thing. Damn, shut out in game 5, but heh, we are coming back home. Game 6 baby. October the 14^th! Dwight D. Eisenhower’s birthday! USA! USA!

              I came down to the pub to watch the game, because this place has always brought me luck. It’s a dirty, sleazy, old neighborhood bar that is somehow becoming trendy in an ironic, or adventurous, or some other unknowable way. Part of me hates to see these frat boys with backward caps on, but at least they drove out the methhead Sox fans. And I like seeing Frank get more business. The pub is a bit of an underdog itself. Maybe 2003 is its year as well. The beer is flowing. Some stranger bought me a shot. And the game is going great! 3 to nothing through 7! Prior looks unbeatable- hasn’t given up an extra basehit. Six outs away from the World Series! I can feel it! It’s happening! UNDERDOGS!

              That’s the problem with underdogs: we can’t give up. We don’t have enough talent in order to do so. Our only talent is perseverance. It’s our only path to victory.

              Maybe that’s why America loves an underdog. In America, just being good isn’t enough. Good intentions aren’t enough. You have to be a success. If you don’t have the skills to pull that off, you just crap your pants a little and get back up.

              The beer is going down fast, but I’m not worrying about my tab. Not tonight. It’s too special. And then I saw her.

              She’s an innocent little peach of a girl who must be celebrating her 21^st birthday, because she just looks too innocent to be using a fake ID, but she also looks like her mom dropped her off at my old pub. She’s that young. That pure. With her soft, thin legs dangling off the bar stool, she stands out in my pub like a smooth white pearl stuck in the gooey mess of a filthy, slimy oyster. I’m trying to keep my head in the game- focus on the upcoming top of the eight during the commercial break, but I can’t take my eyes of her. She’s pretty for sure, but it isn’t just that. I don’t want to sleep with her as much as I want to protect her. Save her. Help her keep her innocence in this dirty, rotten, stinky, unfair world where the little guy never gets a chance.

              Game’s back on. The Marlins send in a pinch-hitter in the 9^th spot: Mike Mordecai. Prior easily gets him to flyout. Five outs to go. Underdogs! My girl looks as happy as I am.

              But then I saw him.   

       This dude struts in wearing a Marlins cap, A MARLINS CAP!, and a huge smile like they aren’t down 3-0. Like we are in goddamn Florida. Like the curse is real and the underdog will lose again, and I hate him for it. He sees my girl in my pub and smiles like he owns her and my pub and my city and the world and he makes a move right towards her.

       Right then, I hear a crack and look up to see Juan Pierre’s double. Shit. Hey now, still ahead. Only the fourth hit Prior’s given up. We got this. But look at this jerk’s smile. He’s cheering like they just won. He’s way too confident. And he’s encroaching upon my girl. 

              It was a scene right out of a movie. A cliché. Corny. Predictable. Redundant.

              This big, golden, cocky son-of-a bitch bends his taunt body and rests the elbow of his $200 shirt against the bar. He starts spewing off all kinds of offensive lines at my girl. Maybe it’s the beer and the shot. Maybe the game. Maybe because it’s my city, my neighborhood, my pub, and my girl. It feels like this girl is my daughter, and he’s leaning into her space, and I just can’t stand it. I can’t sit here and let another innocent princess suffer through another attack like this. This game is everything, but somehow saving my girl seems even more important.

              So I pull down on the brim of my Cubs hat like the beaver of a knight’s helmet and charge in.

              She looks terrified. “two strikes…,” she tells him in an attempt to get him to buzz off. But he won’t. It’s go time! Underdogs!

              I start off relaxed, but unshakeable, “Take it somewhere else pal. This is a nice place.”

              “Excuse me?”

              “The lady isn’t interested bud. Take that stuff somewhere else.”

              “What?” asks my girl. “Greg? What’s he saying?” The confusion on my girl’s face makes me even angrier. There’s a purity in that confusion that transcends this dusty bar and soiled life. She rests her delicate fingers on the guy’s, Greg apparently, on Greg’s massive forearm, because she clearly doesn’t know what else to do. I can tell she is only trying to appease him, because he’s scary as all hell.

              “We’ve just trying to watch the game man,” he flashes a smile of blinding white teeth and looks away from me, up at the tv. “Come on Castillo,” he yells. He looks back at my girl and flashes that cocky smile down upon her. “Don’t look now. Full count.”

              I want this guy out of my pub. Out of our lives. I want my fellow Cub fans to start raining insults and beer and pub food down upon him, but no one else seems to notice. This is my fight. The last hero. UNDERDOGS!

              “I said,” I give him a two handed push right in the middle of his chest. He doesn’t move an inch, just looks down at me in surprise. “GET! AWAY! FROM THE GIRL!”

              “Fouled it off again,” I hear someone yell.

              Greg must be a little afraid of me, because he just stares with his mouth agape.

              “What’s wrong mouth breather? Got a problem? Why don’t we take this outside?” I tell him.

              “Greg? Do we know this guy? Is he kidding?” my girl asks. That’s the thing about Stockholm Syndrome- it kicks in fast.

              “Look man, I think you have us confused with somebody else.” Greg says.

              Somewhere out of the corner of my eye, I see Castillo pop up a ball towards Alou, the only ex-Astro I’ll ever like. Now a Cubby all the way. A sure out.

              “Oh I’m not the one whose confused. I know just what’s going on here. And I’m about to put a stop to it!”

              He sees something from the game and throws his hands ups and laughs, but I won’t let him distract me. A roar of angry protest and disbelief rises up from my fellow patrons. Are they with me after all?

              Everyone must see what I’m about to do, because the strange moans, and screams, and unrest get even louder. I go for a haymaker. Big mistake. He steps back and I slip on beer and fall and my glasses fly off. I try to grab them and push myself up at the same time, but only manage to crush my lenses and frame into a weird bow. The pub is going crazy. Everyone is upset. Surely they are coming to help me, to help the underdog.

              He’s lifting me up, probably to put me in a bear hug or maybe in order to fling me back down with a fireman’s carry. Not gonna let that happen. I swing my forearm up and smash his balls.

              That’s when I start seeing pinwheels and sparklers. He’s landing punch after punch after punch. The pub is even louder now. Everyone is irate, but no one is coming to help me. It’s hard to remember how many times I’ve fallen and gotten back up. The beating seems hours long, but part of me realizes it’s probably a matter of seconds. Another part of me wonders how the game is going. Surely Alou got the out. We only need four more! But I’ve got to focus on bringing this dragon-man down.

              It’s like the entire pub can feel the universal unfairness of my situation. I can’t make out individual words, but the clamor echoes out my frustrations in billowing waves. Injustice and chaos and darkness are ruling the day, and we must stop it. UNDERDOGS!

              I hear even more shouting, but I can’t see anything but the blur of his fists and then the floor and then his fists again. I keep getting up only to go right back down. We can’t let this happen again. The underdogs aren’t cursed. It’s our time damn it!

               WHAM! A right hook slams into my ear and all I hear is a distorted roar like a jet engine in a traffic cone. My legs are fighting my heart. They don’t want to get me back up. But I have to. I’m a fighter if nothing else. A dying breed.

              I push off the floor and he lands a body shot. That’s when we all smell shit. I shouldn’t have had that extra dog back at Mom’s.  

              “Just stay down. I don’t want to hurt you. I never did.”

              I spit blood, “Is that all you got punk?”

              “Good god man.”

              I get up and he hits me again and I fall. He may have broken my eye socket. I feel blind. Vison playing tricks on me. From the floor, the sideways tv shows a score of 8-3 Marlins, but that can’t be right. Cracked eye socket for sure. Got to get back up. Why is no one helping me?

              “Jessica, get your purse. We better go,” he orders. He grabs my girl by the arm and forces her outside. People are reaching for me, but I manage to shove their hands away and stumble into the parking lot. But I’m too late. He opens the passenger door and guides her inside his car before speeding away.

              She’s gone. Who knows what he’ll do to her.

              Something’s wrong inside the pub. Something’s wrong inside me. I realize what’s happening. The stubborn underdog just lost. Again.        

              Just means it’s time to get back up.