Bittersweet Days of Mellow October: A Lament

"Bittersweet Days" rememembers that the original vines that grow on the outfield walls of Wrigley Field were purchased and planted by Bill Veeck, Jr. in September 1937. Veeck strung bittersweet from the bottom of the wall to the top, then planted ivy at the base. The ivy prospered, but like days gone by, the bittersweet is no more.

Bittersweet, with its October bursting fruit, is an ironic metaphor for the century long absence of a World Series in Wrigley Field.

A lament is a song or poem of regret or mourning. The Book of Psalms has several laments. This lament for the Chicago Cubs Professional Baseball Team grieves and remembers a hundred years of futility. No other poetic form can speak to the despair generations of Cubs' fans have endured.

Read aloud "Bittersweet Days of Mellow October" with pained passion and possibly a rending of team garments. Uttered by enough fans, perhaps 2009 will be the year Fate turns.

O, Bittersweet Days of Mellow October,
paint Veeck’s ivy red and gold.

Haunt the gloamin’ with Gabby’s homer
ever-arching into twilight;

Stir memories of heroes whose diamond deeds
hallow honored names:

Tinkers, Evers, and Chance;

Jolly Cholly and Hack;

Santo, Banks, and Williams;

Hawk and Ryno;

And a host of others—

Men playing a boys’ game for the sake
of the youth in us all.

Season heaped upon season—
April sowed October disappointment.

Yet our heroes did not fail us.

Where Waveland and Sheffield meet,
They gave us the timeless summer—
long-shadowed afternoons, each its little eternity.

“Let’s play two!”

O, Bittersweet Days of Mellow October,
sound from brick walls echoes of games-gone-by.

Blend faded cheers with yesterday’s voices—
Jack and Lou and Harry: “Hey, Hey!” and “Holy Cow!”

O, Bittersweet Days, the veil between realities
grows thin and ragged.

Through time’s momentary breach, banish forever the curse
of the Billy Goat.

O, Mellow October, grace the Heartland
with a long-awaited harvest.

Bring a World Series to ivy covered walls.

And when the games have ended and a championship won,

May it be that high atop the scoreboard
a white flag with a blue W snaps to autumn’s cleansing winds,
waving bold and glad and proud against sculling clouds
and grand towers and aching years of unrequited desire.