I Have Mixed Feelings about January

I Have Mixed Feelings about January

I think most people like the month of January. It starts out with a perfect legitimate reason to get plastered, and from that point on, everyone can start out with a clean slate. People hold this image of New Years as being this magical day that gives everyone the ability to start things over because, after all, the calendar is starting over, so why can't they. I don't really buy into the whole New Years resolution concept since most people end up breaking their resolutions after about a week. But New Years aside, January has a certain uniqueness that separates it from all the months. A paradoxical battle rages in my head when it comes to how I feel about the month. On the one hand, it is my favorite month; on the other hand, it is my least-favorite month.

The reason it is my favorite month is because it was the month I was born in. I came into this world on the 11th of January, 1989. Although I never saw a time when jean jackets and scrunchies were popular, I was technically born in the 80’s.

As I was saying, I was born on January 11th. When I was younger, I often would be worried that my gifts from Chanukah would be melded into birthday gifts. Birthday gifts had to be distinct, separate gifts that I was entitled to, regardless of when Chanukah was. Why should the celebration of my birthday be tarnished because of a certain holiday that can't make up its mind if it wants to be at the beginning, middle, or end of December? So I would always look forward to this day honoring my entrance to the world..

I used to have these big elaborate parties when I was younger, usually accompanied by classmates, who I may or may not have been friends with. After all, when you're six, how many people do you really dislike? Through time, when society declares that a person is too old to have the traditional birthday party, it sort of evolved into a dinner with family and sometimes friends.

The gifts also changed with time. Initially, like most kids, I was asked what I wanted for my birthday, or parents' intuition took over and they had a good sense of what to buy me. Throughout the years, the whole element of surprise and excitement about the gifts dissipated. Parents would have less time to find that perfect gift that would light up their child's eyes. And let's not forget how hard it is to really make a teenager happy or even content. So, naturally the concept of a birthday gift evolved into a particular sum of money that would pretty much be consistent each year. Through this evolution, I slowly started feeling less excited about my birthday, knowing that it was just a day where I'd receive some nice money (which don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for), but it has lost some of its sentimentality.

I have trouble pinpointing which of my twenty birthdays stands out the most as being once I can call my favorite, mostly because I don’t remember half of them. But one stands out in my mind as being the most dear to me. This was my 17^th birthday. That January 11^th jumps out to me more than any other because it was the first and (I think last) surprise party that I was thrown. The day went on routinely like many birthdays, me telling every teacher that it was my birthday with the hope of getting some special excuse from not taking a test or going to class. The scheme never worked, and the day carried on. Once school ended my mother picked up me and my friend, B, from school, as was the norm. Instead of driving him home the normal route, my mother was driving in a different direction and she was speaking to B, in a manner that seemed pretty suspicious. When I asked what was up, B told me that they had called a few friends and we were going out to my favorite pizza restaurant. As we got into the restaurant and I sat there sitting with some of my closest friends, and I saw how much effort had been done on my account, I was touched with a sense of happiness that I know should encapsulate every birthday.

That birthday stands out most in my mind as being the happiest and saddest in the most bittersweet of ways, and explains why January is my favorite and least-favorite of months. You see, just a mere six days after that wonderful memory filled with elation and joy came a day that was filled with sorrow and mourning. On January 17^th, my mom died.

Now, as I look ahead every year in the calendar toward January 11^th, I think of how important birthdays are. Those of you that know me know I have this amazing ability to remember friends’ and relatives' birthdays (don't worry, everyone thinks it's weird). I try calling anyone whose phone numbers I have to wish them happy birthday. The reason I do that is because I know how important a birthday is to someone. It’s a day that belongs to the honoree and everything takes a backseat to him. I feel so passionately about birthdays that part of me still has the child inside of him that needs to stay up until midnight specifically to see the clock turn 12:00. I realize how special that birthday was, how special it was to have that great memory of my mother, and to cherish that memory that embodied her kindness.

When January rolls around, I feel the excitement of my approaching birthday, but a great portion of my heart still thinks of that last birthday I spent with my mom. A month that used to be reserved entirely for celebration now has to be shared with the opposite feeling of grief. But every January that comes, I try to think of the positive things that I can learn from my mother's selflessness and generosity, and incorporate her into my daily life. 

Just Wait Til' Next Year

 “The Chicago Cubs have won the World Series! After all this time, the unthinkable has happened! Rejoice Chicago, this day will be remembered for a long while!”

It has been a long hundred years since the Cubs have held the title of World Series champions. Year after year, they sink below the expectations of their fans, who desperately hunger for a title. Too often, they have come so close to making the World Series only to betray their loyal followers. Just when we let our guards down and expect them to finally change their destinies, they break our hearts time and again. Home runs are hit, strikeouts are recorded, spectacular catches are made, but the result remains the same: defeat. 

             It is certainly not because the Cubs dominate the rest of the league that they have a special place in my heart. Rather, my commitment to the team stems almost entirely from my wonderful memories spent at Wrigley Field and in my living room, watching the Cubs with my family. For nearly all of our lives, my father, brother, and I have been fans of the “North Siders.” The three of us try to catch every Cubs game that we can, constantly second-guessing the manager and discussing other intricacies of the great game of baseball. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the three of us going to baseball games to watch our team. It may sound silly to call a team ours, but given all the time that my family has invested in the Cubs, it is only fair to claim some rights to them.

 My father, brother, and I have contributed a lifetime to following our beloved team despite their annual failures to win a World Series. My father spent his childhood summers in the legendary bleachers of Wrigley Field, lucky enough to watch some Cubs’ greats like Ernie Banks and Fergie Jenkins. My brother is so dedicated to the Cubs that when he studied in Israel a few years ago, he stayed up until the wee hours of the night to watch his team in the playoffs, despite the eight-hour time difference. My family’s passion has carried over to me.

Over the past four seasons, I have worked as a vendor at Wrigley Field, feeling that great baseball vibe whenever I entered the park. Even when better job opportunities have surfaced, I turn them down because I find the “Friendly Confines” of Wrigley Field so aesthetically pleasing that it doesn’t even feel like a job at all. I often look around the stadium, just admiring its beauty.

The freshly cut green grass shimmers in the sunlight like a bright emerald. The brick walls in the outfield are covered in ivy that seems directly delivered from the Garden of Eden. The tan-colored sand is evenly dispersed across the perfectly shaped diamond. The white chalk that coats the lines and bases is the quintessential clean-color of white. Wrigley Field is the immaculate palace, home to my favorite team: the Chicago Cubs.

But as magnificent as the stadium is, it still cannot compensate for the enormous void that exists due to the Cubs’ abysmal performances. The park’s grandeur cannot erase the tears that have been shed by so many. No matter what the excuses are-- Billy goats, black cats, a guy named Bartman—their catastrophic debacles are still gut wrenching. My family, along with the other Cubs fans, finds it hard to support and love something that does not reciprocate the feeling.

The torment of the longest drought in sports history is made even more apparent at the sight of other cities rejoicing at their teams’ successes. In the past few years, the two teams that had the longest droughts in baseball aside for the Cubs, the Chicago White Sox and the Boston Red Sox, won the World Series in consecutive years. This rubbed the proverbial salt in the wound that was our misery, especially when we were witnesses to our cross-town neighbors celebrating over the White Sox victory. But, in spite of the Cubs’ many fiascos and the heartbreak that we have endured, we optimistically see some hope in the future. Rather than being resentful toward the White Sox and Red Sox for winning, Cubs fans view these triumphs as being proof that fate can change, and there is still a reason to be hopeful.

             When spring comes around every year, I am in a much better mood. It is partly because of the warmer weather, but it is mainly because I know that baseball season is approaching. Even though the Cubs have failed for nearly a century, I still dream at the beginning of every April, “This year is our year. This year we’ll win it all.” The other fans laugh at the optimistic view Cubs fans’ have, dubbing the Cubs the “Lovable Losers.” Ignoring the ridicule, fans loyally cheer for the Cubs with an eternal hope. No matter what stressful ordeals or chaotic situations people are experiencing, the Cubs are always there as a beacon of hope and potential. The Cubs fan in me gives me a perseverance and determination that can never be vanquished. The Cubs are a source of consistency, something to rely on when nothing else seems certain or definite. Even when tests are flunked, jobs are lost, and even when I lost my mother, the Cubs fans’ spirit that is instilled in me inspires me to retain my optimism and hope for better days. Even when it seems that things in life may never improve, I remain hopeful about a better and happier future. Even when it feels like the Cubs will never win another World Series, my family and other Cubs fans know that they will.

 Just wait ‘til next year.

A Century's Not That Long, Right?

Well it happened again... I got swept up in the hype; the Cubs got swept in the first round. Despite my best efforts to avoid it all, I couldn't get away from the excitement. I was so hellbent on the magic of the 100 year anniversary, that all rationalism got pushed aside. I stubbornly chose to ignore my friends who told me that the Cubs would choke and naively thought, "This is definitely the year." It wasn't. Being the arrogant, obstinate, unrealistic fan, I got sucked into the atmosphere. It happened in '98, it happened in '03, it happened in '07, and it just had to happen this year. I was mesmerized by the comebacks, the big rallies, and even the ambiance; I should have known better.
So many Cubs' fans believe in a curse. I don't. I personally think that G-d has much better things to do with his time than put a hex on a baseball team. So, once people get over their theories of curses, they look for scapegoats, or even regular goats (the pun just fit). People lay blame on these symbols just to ease their sorrow, whether it be a billygoat, a black cat, or some guy from Northbrook (Bartman has since moved).
This time there wasn't anything to say except that we simply played terribly come playoff-time. During the regular season, they played phenomenally, winning 97 games. But the team that walked off the field September 28 was not the same team that walked on it October 1. They forgot a lot of things in a mere 3 days. They forgot the crucial nuances of baseball and keys to the game that helped so much this season. They forgot that a playoff team can't walk people. They forgot that a playoff team can't make 4 errors in a game and expect to win. They forgot that a playoff team can't strand 9 runners on base (4 of them in scoring position). They simply forgot that the playoffs is different that the rest of the season; gameplay needs to be precise and mistakes are irrevocable.
I feel frustrated not because the team let me down in an abysmal playoff performance, but more because I allowed myself to believe that this year would be different than other years. I chose to believe that somehow this year had to be the year. I feel like I was on a hidden-camera show where everyone else knows the truth, and I'm the only sucker oblivious to it. I feel frustrated that I got duped again, despite the myriad of previous failures. But the most depressing thing of all is that I invested so much time and energy into the long baseball season, when all that resulted from this great Cubs' season was a schedule being extended to 165 games, instead of 162. If I had the choice between this year's season and a regular, average season, I choose the latter. That way my heart can stay calm right where it is... instead of being ripped out from my chest.