Well, boy, howdy. Like we didn't know this was coming.
Like we didn't know, deep in our soul of souls, that heresy never goes unpunished, particularly in regards to baseball. And so the ultimate heresy -- that somehow the Cubs were, you know, good now, and competent, and making every move impeccably -- was going to get its payback at some point.
And so, a week into the season, Kyle Schwarber's on the shelf for the rest of it. No more bombs. No more hallowed launches left atop scoreboards, like footprints preserved on the moon. And, back of it all, a sudden, uneasy feeling that the baseball gods, duly affronted, might be just starting with the torment.
What's next? An outbreak of Tommy John surgery among all those glittering Cubs arms? An ill-timed case of the past-his-primes for Ben Zobrist? More ACLs getting KIA'ed?
Grim signs and evil portents have always swirled about the tenants of Wrigley Field, cruel heartache waiting just offstage for the perfect hideous moment. All that looking up for the Cubs? Why, it has to be a setup for the long fall down, doesn't it? I mean, they are the Cubs, right?
Think about it: First, Schwarber exits, stage left. And this morning, as the news hits, we rise to a suddenly counterfeit April, the ground white with snow.
Well. I guess we all know what that means, don't we, Cubs Nation?
Winter is coming.