My father, the lifelong Cubs fan

Globe and Mail

a day ago

This week, as I covered games between the Blue Jays and Cubs for The Globe and Mail, I couldn't help but think about him. My dad, Ernie, was a lifelong Cubs fan.
It didn't matter that they lost far more often than they won. He almost seemed to enjoy the suffering as they clutched defeat from the jaws of victory time and again.
On Thursday afternoon they lost to Toronto in an exciting yet cringeworthy manner. They were behind 2-1 in the eighth inning but had runners on second and third with nobody out.
Their next three batters struck out, as did three in the ninth inning.
I'm sure my dad, who died 43 years ago on Friday, would have seen it coming.
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My father grew up in Chicago, less than a block from Wrigley Field. When he was young, he would sneak into the ballpark by sliding under the turnstiles. He was nabbed by an usher every now and then but when he wasn't, he'd get to watch his beloved Cubs.
This was mostly in the 1920s and 1930s so he saw some of baseball's greatest stars. He mentioned Hack Wilson to me. The Cubs' centre fielder hit 56 home runs and drove in a record 191 RBIs in one season.
My dad died of leukemia in 1982 at age 64. In that terrible last year one of his greatest joys was to lay on the couch and watch the Cubs and broadcaster Harry Caray on TV.
Usually the team was not very good and because of that he was denied the elation of ever seeing them win a World Series. He would love them, curse them and then love them again all in a matter of five minutes.
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He passed on a love for baseball to my brother, Jeff, and I, and from us to our children. I passed mine along to my son, Matt, who lives and works in Boston and naturally is a Red Sox fan.
I bought him his first glove when he was 6 years old and we tossed a ball in our front yard in New Brunswick a few hours later. I am sure he will do the same thing when he has kids.
That love for a team, no matter how good or bad, is one of the most remarkable things about sports.
In 1939 my dad met my mom, Bea, at a movie theatre where she sold candy and popcorn. Later, after he became a musician, he wrote a song about her called Candy Girl.
They married in 1941 and he enlisted in the U.S. Army and served for four years on both the Western Front and the Pacific Rim. He returned from World War II hard of hearing from artillery fire and with partial vision in one eye where it was pierced by a piece of wire.
After the war he played the piano and had his own orchestra and never stopped root, root rooting for the home team. My brother, Jeff, was born in Chicago in 1949, and two years later the family moved to Miami. I was born in 1957.
At the time, there was no major league team in Miami but he would take us to see the minor-league Marlins, and during spring training, the Baltimore Orioles.
My rebellious brother horrified him by choosing to be a Chicago White Sox fan. I have always loved the Orioles, the first big league team I saw in person.
Although I can't find a record of it, I have a vague memory of dad taking me to the old Miami Stadium to see the great Satchel Paige pitch for the triple-A Marlins. The Hall of Famer was likely in his 60s and barnstorming after playing three years for the Marlins, but still threw 90 miles per hour. Between innings he sat in a rocking chair outside their dugout.
My father retired from music and became the chief steward at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach. The Rat Pack – Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. – used to stay there and so did President Kennedy and the Rolling Stones.
My dad tolerated the Beatles but not so much Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. He told me that he saw them lounging by the pool once and wanted to dash over and cut their hair.
He would plan summer vacation trips to Chicago around the Cubs' schedule. His favourite player was Ernie Banks. It would take three days to drive to Chicago in my dad's old station wagon but we would get to see the Cubs Cubs lose a handful of times and he would be happy.
My dad had retired in 1981 and was diagnosed with leukemia just months later. There was a very fast downward spiral and he was in and out of the Veterans Hospital multiple times. Near the end I was sad and scared but would talk baseball with him to cheer him up.
He died on Aug. 15, 1982 – 43 years ago Friday – and his ashes were buried in a Veterans' cemetery in St. Petersburg, Fla., where my brother's family lived.
On Nov. 2, 2016, the Cubs won their first World Series in 108 years. After losing three of the first four games to Cleveland they flipped the script and won the following three.
I watched Game 7 from my home in Toronto and cried when the final out was recorded. The next day my brother pedalled his bike to the cemetery in St. Petersburg and left a Cubs hat and a hand-written note from the both of us at his grave.
Dad, the Cubs finally did it. This is for you.