The appeal of sports is rooted in the narrative.
We get excited when watching an important game not because seeing a bunch of giant muscle men running around is intrinsically exciting, but because we know what results will mean to teams and players. And when the old tell the young about the greatest sporting moments of their time, they tell them as stories, with the characters and conflicts passed down through time. A sports journalist’s job, therefore, is to find these narratives, shape and refine them and then bring them to the world’s attention.
This week, there was no bigger narrative than the Chicago Cubs securing the World Series in seven games.
By now, even most non-baseball fans know the major plot points: After a 108-year-long championship drought the Cubs finally hoisted the trophy, winning a thrilling game in which they overcame a rain delay and several comebacks by the Cleveland Indians.
Long-suffering Cubs fans finally got the win they had hoped for, and an estimated 5 million of them turned out in Chicago to cheer on the winning team as they paraded through the streets. Those are the events as they happened. But narratives do not draw their power from the plot points of a story; a narrative’s lasting impact comes through emotion. More specifically, the emotions of its characters, and the emotions the story transfers to the audience.
And this narrative is no different.
The Cubs players’ emotions were on full display the entire game. Early on, with the Cubs up 3-1, first baseman Anthony Rizzo approached veteran catcher David Ross in the dugout. Over Rizzo’s microphone, millions watching heard him tell Ross, “I’m an emotional wreck,” to which Ross responded “Well, it’s only going to get worse.”
After the game, when interviewed by Ken Rosenthal, Rizzo seemed at once overjoyed, relieved and in shock.
Ross, who was not in the game when he spoke to Rizzo, would soon get his own emotional roller coaster.
The 39-year-old had already announced his plans to retire at season’s end, and after starting the night before, it seemed that Ross had played his final major league game.
But he was put into Game 7 midway through to catch for pitcher Jon Lester.
Immediately, Ross committed two errors behind the plate; throwing the ball past Rizzo at first base and being knocked down by a pitch off his helmet, allowing two runs to score. It seemed that Ross’ final moment of his 15-year career would be a dubious one.
But the next inning, Ross crushed a ball from Indians pitcher Andrew Miller over the center-field wall, becoming the oldest player of all-time to hit a home run in Game 7 of the World Series.
Again, the shocked happiness on his face said everything about the emotion he felt. Every Cubs player experienced a moment like this at some point during what will go down as one of the most intense games in baseball history.
And watching these players struggle, fight, laugh, cry and hope, all in real time, evokes a feeling of empathy and connection from us spectators that we might not ordinarily feel for multimillionaire athletes.
This comes down to the way we as humans recognize and process emotion. Mirror neurons in our brains are what cause us to instinctively feel an emotion when we recognize it in another person.
It is why we cry at Mufasa’s death in “The Lion King,” and it is why the Cubs’ win evoked such feeling in so many people, avid baseball fans or not.
Anyone who watched last Wednesday’s thriller watched a group of people overcome obstacle after obstacle, and finally achieve what each and every one of them had dreamed about and worked towards their entire lives. The release that every Chicago Cubs player felt after that final out was recorded, that they had finally achieved their ultimate goal, is something everyone seeks out in their lives.
And to watch someone experience that, even someone you might have no connection to whatsoever, is a powerful and beautiful thing. But this joy of accomplishment is something felt by any team who wins a championship at a professional level.
What makes the 2016 narrative special is the emotion of fans, from the Midwest out to the rest of the world.
As soon as the Cubs’ victory was in the books, stories began to pop up everywhere of life-long Cubbie fans finally getting to see their team on top of the mountain.
Pictures and stories of 100-plus-year-old men and women, decked out in Cubs gear, experiencing the moment they waited their whole lives for, could not fail to bring a smile to even the most cynical among us.
But the story that struck the deepest chord with me was the story of Wayne Williams, a man who listened to the game at his father’s grave.
When asked about the reason for his long drive, he told a reporter, “We had a pact. When the Cubs — not if, when — the Cubs got into the World Series, we would make sure we listen to the games together.”
This story to me perfectly distills the essence of sports fandom.
It exemplifies the commitment, the closeness, the irrational optimism that one day — one day — your team will win, and when they do, nothing, not even death, can keep you from celebrating with those who share your love.
This passion, flowing from millions of people, focused in on one spot, is what made this particular game a truly memorable occurrence.
It mattered, not in a cosmic sense, but in a deep, personal way to so many people, in a way that few other things can. It was Rocky Balboa. It was realizing a lifelong dream. It was finally shedding the label of a loser. It was a reminder to all that hard work and patience can get you where you want to go. It was a moment of catharsis, of pure unadulterated joy.
This moment encapsulated every reason why sports has always been, and always will be, a part of our existence. After all, even if you can’t tell a baseball from a grapefruit, everyone loves a good story.
