Baseball is back!!! And despite the Cubs dismal start in Tokyo, I remain optimistic that the Cubs will make the post-season. Why? The stuff of dreams, you might say. And no one dreams Cubs better than Paul McDowell does.
These Cub dreams are deeply rooted in my childhood. I grew up in LaGrange, Illinois, where I attended Cossitt Elementary School, just two and a half blocks from my house. So, when the school day ended at 3:15, I had plenty of time to walk home and catch the last few innings of the Cubs game on WGN. I wasn’t hoping for a World Series championship, I just wanted the Cubs to win the game that I was watching. Even eight-year old me was realistic.
It was the 70s. I lived for Baseball, or more specifically, I lived for the Chicago Cubs. I also dreamed of the Chicago Cubs . . . just about every night. Hot summer days drew me to our driveway where I would live out my dreams in the daylight.
My daily domination of National League hitters began in the driveway of my childhood home, where I pitched a tennis ball against the garage and the neighbors could hear me calling my own play by play:
Wrigley Field is buzzing, McDowell is pitching his tenth consecutive complete game shutout today. He is one out away from a no-hitter against the Dodgers. two outs in the bottom of the ninth, full count and the Cubs are up 4-0 over the hitless Dodgers, thanks to a grand slam that McDowell (who else?) hit in the third inning.
You know the rest . . . I strike out Steve Garvey with a nasty knuckle curve that makes his knees buckle resulting in my fifth no-hitter of my rookie year, including two perfect games.
Back to 2025—
For years now, every night I crawl into bed, and think about the day just lived. I silently say a prayer of gratitude for the day. I then roll over and try to set the stage for my dream ( I call it my dream-prep). It is my rookie year with the Cubs, I am no longer pitching for them, instead I’m a gold glover at second base, and I’m batting a statistically impossible .900. At Wrigley Field and on the road, every game is a sellout.
Sportswriters ask me the same question every time: How do you hit .900?
I respond every time with a rather glib: Well if I need a heart surgeon, I want the one who has a 100% success rate. Seeing as I’m only getting hits 90 % of the time, I’m not as successful as that heart surgeon. Hey, It’s only baseball, fellas.
That’s one version of the dream-prep. The other version that I defer to if I’m feeling like sleep is imminent: It’s opening day at Wrigley Field, it’s also my first game as a Cub, I’m batting fourth, in my first at-bat, I hit a grand-slam. My second at bat results in a triple, clearing the bases, I follow that up with a double that clears the bases. And of course, my last at-bat is a single that scores two teammates, so I have hit for the cycle, and driven in 13 RBIs. The Cubs beat the Cardinals 15-0.
Fast forward to the World Series my rookie year, my first at-bat, Yankees hurler ___________
(I usually find the name of the pitcher by filling in the blank with an old classmate or friend, so let’s say Phil LeBeau is pitching for the Yankees). He beans me with a 105 MPH fastball, which puts me on concussion protocol for the rest of the World Series, so I’m on the bench for my first World Series. Tied 2-2 in the bottom of the ninth, with the bases loaded and two outs, the Cubs need a pinch hitter . . .
We’ll get to the play-by-play, but first, an explainer (my fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Allaman was the best teacher I ever had. She nicknamed me P-McD in fifth grade; after I revealed that in an interview in the Chicago Tribune, Cub fans organized themselves into a P-McD cheer every time I come to bat (the fans between first base and the right field wall shout P! The fans between first base and third base shout Mc! The fans between third base and the left field wall D!).
So back to the play-by-play:
Cubs manager Anthony Rizzo looks at P-McD as he contemplates a pinch hitter, but that could be dangerous, given his concussion status. P-McD looks at Rizzo and smiles. The deal is done. pmcd grabs a bat and the Wrigley faithful are going ballistic. First game starter, Phil LeBeau, who beaned McDowell to keep him out of contention for the series, has held the Cubs to two runs, but here in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded . . . he has to pitch to McDowell. The fans standing on Waveland are jockeying for position. pmcd steps into the box, listen to this crowd, here’s the pitch! pmcd bunts! Play at the plate! The runner scores easily. Cubs win! The Cubs win their first World Series since 2016! (Don’t worry, Cub fans, there will be 19 more World Series championships if P-McD has anything to say about it.)
There is one more thing! My twenty-year career as a Cub sees me entering the Hall of Fame on the first ballot with 2000 career home runs, 3000 triples, 2000 doubles, and more than enough singles to surpass Pete Rose’s record; if I were a betting man, I’d put good money on the likelihood that I own the career record for RBIs, as well. And career batting average: .900 is hard to beat.
Given that my three-season little league career featured only one hit, this set-up dream is truly just the stuff of dreams.
Music: Prologue from The Natural by Randy Newman
"To Dream the Impossible Dream" by Frank Sinatra
