OBVIOUSLY, WHAT THE JOCKS of Chicago could use more than a second chance, or second place, is an all-purpose concession speech.
They need something handy to whip out during those increasingly frequent moments when they are asked, like bronze medalists, why they failed.
If the time should ever arrive when they do not fail, they are on their own, which is not an imminent problem. For now, I am delighted to provide multiple-choice reactions, useful for all teams, seasons and goats, or whichever Chicago animal has been most recently skewered.
The generic apology is always a grand place to start.
“The people I feel sorriest for are (the fans) (Walter) (Coach Ray) (all of the above). We wanted to win it for (them) (him).”
You see how it works. And it works every time.
In moments of extreme stress, the names of Ernie and Gale may come to mind also, and brief sympathy may be earned for invoking Artis or Minnie, but Bull, in the singular or the plural, is too risky to consider.
THE MOST NOBLE of motives having been established, a selection may then be made from the following:
(“We wanted it too much.”) (“We were trying too hard.”) (“The problem, silly us, was overconfidence.”)
Who can argue with effort? Or conviction?
And this is exactly the point where one is tempted to vow, “Wait ’til Next Year.” Not a good idea. Next Year in Chicago can be traced back roughly to the Battle of Hastings, which was lost, according to dispatches, on a routine ground ball to the right side.
Here are the alternate choices:
(“Soon.”) (“Eventually.”) (“Whenever.”)
It was okay when Chicago sports teams were private disappointments, mumbling into a few sympathetic ears, but they have begun to lose with the world watching and must accept a greater responsibility. They must be prepared to impress strangers as well as keeping their own constituency from investigating alternatives, like Wisconsin or suicide, a tough choice.
The Sox, the Cubs and the Bears, in that order, have been maddening teases lately, and the Bulls and the Black Hawks threaten more of the same. The Sting is the exception here and relieves the author from having to translate alibis Teutonically, no small favor.
IN ALL CASES, the best thing to do is cry. Tears can be overdone, but are always effective. In fact, depending on how dramatic the loss is, tears are expected and may have a variety of their own.
(“Sniff.”) (“Sob.”) (“Weeeeaaghhh!”) This last one should be used only by field goal kickers, relief pitchers or insecure foul shooters, and only when the camera is on. Linebackers, power forwards and catchers should hit something obvious. I suggest field goal kickers, relief pitchers or . . . No matter. Losers are expected to be miserable. Otherwise, losing is pointless, no pun intended.
And yet, Chicago has been elevated from the City of Losers to the City of Nonwinners, which ought to be the next thing pointed out.
This notion is easily planted by anyone who can count.
“There are (24) (22) (12) teams that were at home watching us, wishing they could be here.”
Not to be forgotten is the chanciness of it all.
“When you get into the playoffs, it’s all (a roll of the dice anyhow) (the luck of the draw) (the inconclusiveness of a short series).”
“Playoffs are lots of things, all of which rely on (fate) (whim) (luck).”
“There are no losers, only (survivors) (discards.)”
THE MOST AWFUL possibility to consider each time this happens is that there is something wrong with us and not with them. It is an instinct fertilized repeatedly by succeeding generations of heroes who never seem to be enough in talent, commitment or number.
Hence, every Chicago sports failure must be expected to address the tradition of losing. Insensitive oafs will keep bringing that up every time there is a new casualty, as if a broken heart is the only connection between then and now. Explanations tend to be snippy.
(“I wasn’t even born in 1945.”) (“I never saw Doug Atkins play.”) (“They aren’t making Canadians like they used to.”)
That’s okay. It is too frightening to consider that the problem might actually be among ourselves, in the water we drink, the air we breathe, the elevators we ride or, as I suspect, the pizza.