ELATION DANGEROUS

Chicago sports fans are a long-suffering lot. Now, before I moan and groan, the six Chicago Bulls championships in the 1990s have to be acknowledged. But with Jordan on the team, we might as well have had Jesus himself on the floor. Screw 'acknowledge,' I'm gonna fekkin' brag. The first title, in 1991, was amazing, of course. And the second, well, I'd rank that in my top 5 life experiences. It was 1992 and I had a driver's license so my friends and I could join in the traditional 4 wheel festival of recklessly driving around the Westside beeping the horn and playing Garry Glitter's 'Rock N' Roll Part II' on pepeat, at deafening decibles. I spent the whole month of June atop the neighborhood watch's most-wanted list. Oh man, the third was a 48 hour "Whoop There It Is" beer-a-thon. The phrase three-peat was coined that year. A team that's responsible for coining a phrase as righteous and arrogant as three-peat deserves a humbling reminder that they're fallible like everyone else. Except the Pope. And Oprah. After indulging in prowess from 1991-1993, The Fall was so bad, we had to build a new stadium.

The Bulls' public ego deflation arrived in the form of sheer crisis. Before the next season even began, Michael Jordan held a press conference to announce his "retirement," the first of several fake retirements to come. (Streisand and Cher? Copy cats.) That hit me hard, literally. I found out about Michael's announcement from a so-called friend while sparring in my shotokan karate class. Caught off guard, devastated really, I took a roundhouse kick to the face.

But for the grace of Wilt Chamberlain, Oprah and the Pope, neither I nor M.J. were down for long. He returned a couple years later to vault the Bulls into history. By winning a record 72 regular season games, how could the Bulls NOT beat the Seattle Supersonics for a 4th championship? That one overwhelmed Mike. His dad had croaked, which some say prompted his retirement at 30, and 1996 was the first crowning moment that he didn't get to share with Papa. Air Jordan's emotions got the best of him. He cried like a girl clutching the Larry O'Brien trophy in the locker room, hugging it like it might just squeeze him back. Yeah, yeah, you miss your Dad. I do too, but you don't see me shedding tears sh on NBC, do ya? That brings us to 1997, a gimme. Our finals opponent that year was the Utah Jazz. We kicked their Mormon asses. Malone and Stockton would end their illustrious careers championshipless. Wah, wah. In 1998 we beat the Jazz again, proving that God doesn't even like Mormons. To sweeten the beatdown, it took the exact same number of games to re-kick their asses: 6. Whoop, there it is again!

Chicago Bears fans remember only one team, the '85 Bears. Led by Mike Ditka, arguably infalliable to any Superfan, and Buddy Ryan's 46 Zone defense, the storied season ended in the best game ever, the '86 Super Bowl. The Bears won Super Bowl 20 by a score of 46-10, by far the largest margin of victory in a super bowl to that point. Even 'The Fridge' scored a touchdown, and he was too fat to walk.

Ah, the Chicago Cubs, Northside n'er do wells. Loving them is suicide in red and royal blue. They alone killed Harry Carray. He was too Budweiser shitfaced to notice. Harry slurred 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame' until he pickled at the age of 84.

WONDER OF WONDERS, MIRACLE OF MIRACLES

Yesterday, the Chicago White Sox clinched the American League pennant for the first time in 46 years. There was another victory yesterday, equally as rare (not really, but if you're a Bears fan, you get it) and cause for celebration in it's own right. The Chicago Bears beat the Minnesota Vikings 28-3. The Bears' win quickened my pulse and my heart rate climbed unusually high. But when the Sox game was over, and I realized that we were going to The World Series, it felt like something was bursting out of my chest. It wasn't a heart attack, though. And I would never make light of that medical mystery. It was more like a heart explosion. Filled with more joy and enthusiasn than my litte body could contain, I lost feeling in my legs, and crashed to the floor. Luckily, I was able to resurrect myself. Thank God I bought that home difibulator kit.
GO WHITE SOX!