The Curse was published in The Storyteller.
It's my fantasy about what really happened to the Bartman ball and why the Cubs continue to pursue their century long dream.
The Curse
In an office by a river in the heart of the city, Rop Richards gingerly rubbed his long jaw. A deepening black and purple bruise spread from chin to cheekbone. The price of success, thought the dark haired columnist. He pressed a button on his desk. A wall panel slid silently aside to reveal a black and silver plasma screen. Another button, and sound and images from the morning’s events filled the room.
“Here’s exclusive security tape from Harry Carey’s,” said a plastic-faced newscaster, “just hours before the scheduled destruction…”
On screen, a crowd milled in the downtown restaurant. The famous, the curious and the long-suffering had gathered for a deathwatch. Imprisoned in a glass case, illuminated by a single halogen bulb, bruised, stitched and pale, The Bartman Ball awaited its fate. Five months earlier, the ball had streaked toward Wrigley Field’s left field stands – and into Cubs lore. In a few hours, it would be sacrificed to eradicate The Curse and free the Cubs to pursue, yet again, their hundred-year dream.
The image flickered.
On screen, two men in black stocking masks pushed into view. The larger of the two leveled a gun. The other arched a bat toward the glass case and shards sprayed the crowd. Reaching in, the masked man wrapped his fist around the symbolic sphere, then backed toward the door. A dark haired man with a long jaw rushed from the crowd. Chest to chest he grappled with the thief for the ball. A gun swung and the dark haired man staggered and collapsed. Ball in hand, the thieves fled.
The plastic-faced newscaster appeared again. “That was Rop Richards, the Sun Times columnist, who tried to play hero,” he said. A smile skittered across his face. “Too bad he can’t fight as good as he can write. Might have saved Cubs fans years of grief. Police are pursuing an anonymous tip that ties the theft of the ball with a notorious East Coast collector. More at 10.”
Richards pressed a button. A video recorder whirred and the news clip rewound. He advanced the tape slowly through the fight sequence. Perfectly choreographed, he thought. The switch was almost invisible. He rubbed his jaw and winced. Could have been a little lighter on the melodramatics though. Slipping his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, Richards’ fingers retrieved a round object. He placed the object in a desk drawer and locked it. Wouldn’t be able to get it to its permanent hiding place until tomorrow.
#
The next day, Richards’ column sold a record number of papers.
Curses!
Although a rabid White Sox’ fan, I lost my head – and almost my jaw - yesterday as I attempted to save Cubs’ fans from another century of despair. The goat, the choke of 69, Leon Durham’s glove – and now the Bartman Ball. I did my best to end it. But now, with the Bartman sphere missing and presumed privately collected, I can’t help but believe the curse will go on - and on and on….
#
Later that day, Richards returned from a charity lunch for terminally ill kids. Someone waited in his office.
Thin hair, rumpled blue suit, and gleaming black shoes.
Police Detective Flynn.
Richards glanced furtively at his desk drawer. It seemed undisturbed. He smiled at Flynn. Be calm, he told himself, he can’t know.
“Just a couple more questions about yesterday,” said the detective, “hope you don’t mind. Know you’re busy with the column - and that movie review stuff.”
“My job’s easy compared to yours. Happy to help.”
The detective rubbed a hairless patch on top of his head. “You were closer than anyone else. Think. Did you notice anything that could help?”
Richards leaned back in his chair and slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Like I told you yesterday. It happened so fast. I was focused on the ball and…” The columnist shrugged his shoulders.
“Too bad.” The detective rubbed his scalp again. “Odd wasn’t it, how well-timed the whole thing was – like there was inside help.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guards for one thing – they take five minutes to secure the street for the Mayor’s arrival, and our masked bandits step in.”
“Luck?” asked Richards.
“Don’t think so. Also, I don’t buy that East Coast crap. It’s someone closer to home. Someone who knows the city, knows what that ball symbolizes.”
Under his desk, Richards’ hand quivered slightly. Steady, he told himself, he’s fishing.
Flynn rose from his chair and walked to the door. He hesitated before leaving. “I’m a die-hard Cubs fan, Mr. Richards. That ball needs to be found – and destroyed. And, I don’t care who I have to put away to do it.”
Richards closed his office door and stood with his back against it for a long time. Then, he made a telephone call, slipped on his jacket – and unlocked his desk drawer.
His hand curled around a piece of baseball history. God, how I hate them, he thought. The fans, the attention. For what? Year after year of mediocrity, false hopes, broken promises? When a real team, a team with heart toils unnoticed on the other side of town. Well, I can’t change all of that – but I can make sure this ball is never destroyed – and that the curse goes on forever.
And, he thought, I know the perfect hiding place…
#
Five minutes later at street level, Richards hailed a cab. It pulled away from the curb and careened south. Behind, an unmarked police car crept into traffic. Inside, Flynn directed the driver.
“Give him room – and maybe we’ll find out why a columnist famous for writing articles berating all things Cubs - suddenly bleeds Cubbie blue. I’m betting he’s going to collect a ball.”
Traffic was light. Twenty minutes later the cab pulled off the Dan Ryan Expressway and skidded to a halt.
“Desolate place in February,” said the cabbie.
Richards glanced out the window with sad eyes. “Not much better in June,” he answered. He paid the cabbie, hurried through a light snow and into a cavernous edifice.
Behind him, the unmarked car glided silently to the curb. Flynn stepped out. His eyes rose as he took in the saucer-shaped destination.
US Cellular Field
Home of the Chicago White Sox
Inside the dimly lit park, a gray-haired, dusty-skinned groundskeeper led Richards down a large deserted corridor. The ancient guardian hesitated, cocked his head. An out-of-place sound. Quickly, he pulled Richards behind a column. A moment later, Flynn’s gleaming black shoes clicked past. The clicking hesitated. Richards held his breath and pressed into the shadows. Keep going, keep going, keep going, he thought. Richards’ heart pounded in his ears. A heartbeat passed, a second - an eternity. He had to breathe, to move, to…
The clicking resumed, grew faint.
The groundkeeper silently mouthed, “This way.”
He opened a heavy metal door and Richards followed him through. The groundskeeper locked the door behind them. “Now, we can take our time,” he said with a voice like gravel.
Down a flight of concrete stairs to another door. Beyond, a narrow brick-lined corridor lit by a single bulb. Rust colored water dripped from a low ceiling.
“35th Street’s above,” said the groundskeeper. “Leads under the spot where old Comisky Park stood.”
At the end of the corridor - a narrow green door with a small, wire re-enforced window. Richards brushed cobwebs away and peered through dirt-caked glass. His breath fogged the window. “It’s cold,” he said, surprise in his voice.
The groundskeeper’s laughter crackled off the brick walls. “Turned it on yesterday. Still works great.”
“Heard about it when I was a kid. Thought it was a rumor, until recently.”
“Real enough. Helped us win a pennant in ‘59. The Go-Go Sox had great pitching, but couldn’t hit a lick. So we brought the game balls down here – froze ‘em. No matter how hard the opposing teams hit ‘em – they died half way to the fences.”
The groundskeeper removed an old, iron key from his pocket and fit it into the lock. The door to the freezer room shrieked as he pulled it open.
Richards dropped to one knee and placed The Bartman Ball on a small stand in the center of the room. He rose and wrapped an arm around the old man.
“It’s been our curse to be Sox fans in a Cubs’ town,” he said, “but this should help keep their fortunes cold for a long, long time.”
