Why The Cubs Stink: Too Much Love<P>

The country tends to see the Cubs as a group of lovable losers. It's not hard to see why; they've got a beautiful park, a whole lot of loyal fans, and an amusing, cuddly history of ineptitude.

But let's revisit for a moment the ironclad rule of baseball, one that I'd get tattooed to my face, if I happened to be insane. That rule is: "Everything you do should be toward winning. Winning is everything."

As I touched upon in my previous column, this is the rule that makes and defines sports; without it they are nothing, they are the WWF.

My problem with the Cubs is not prejudice or rivalry. It's based on the way they play the game, which is not sufficiently committed to the fundamental rule. They seem to try to win, sort of. But they do it in such a slipshod, unthinking way, and they have for so long, because they don't need to get tough, smarten up and take chances to remain popular and happy. What they need is a solid kick in the pants, in the form of mass public derision, to get their act together and start living and dying by "winning is everything."

But in Chicago, there's too much forgiveness, too much optimism for Cubs management to ever get that single-minded competitive ardor that makes sports great. The other measures of success, the ones that should be supplemental to winning and losing, are things they have in spades: financial success and love. It's the love, in the form of faithful fans, a festive atmosphere, and an admittedly wonderful ballpark, that cause the financial success, so the root problem is simply too much love.

In the real world, of course, love and money are much more important things to have. But sports is not the real world, it relies on a whole set of different rules, and once you mix the real world too much with the simple, fundamental rule of winning = good and losing = bad, then sports become as complex and tedious as life, and who needs that?

What all this translates to is a front office that's afraid to do anything that might compromise one iota of the Cubs fans' love. So the club ends up being run by the fans. And fans, as a rule, have no idea what they're talking about (except me, heh heh).

Fans hate the kind of concerted rebuilding efforts that the Cubs have needed for decades. They take years, they sacrifice familiar players in favor of no-name prospects, and fans are by nature impatient and short-sighted. And as long as the Cubs fans keep loving losers and having optimism where none is warranted, the Cubs really don't need to.

So they try to hedge their bets, and lose every time. They find at least one superstar, a legitimately great player who everyone loves, especially the effusive Chicago fans: your Ernie Bankses, your Ryne Sandbergs, your Sammy Sosas. Occasionally they'll supplement him with a few homegrown talents, ranging in skill level from Billy Williams to Mark Grace to Jerome Walton.

But for ages now the Cubs' farm system hasn't really developed enough stars on their own. Their superstars are the people they managed to get in wily trades: Sosa from the White Sox for an aging, past-his-prime George Bell (what were you thinking, White Sox?), Sandberg from the Phillies for an aging, past-his-prime Larry Bowa (what are we learning about trading promising youngsters for aging, past-their-prime stars?).

Obviously, sometimes it works, but you can't base your organizational strategy on getting lucky with trades. But trading and signing for free agents are the dramatic changes that galvanize those Cub fans into another round of unfounded hope. Developing young players is a slow, undramatic process that frustrates fans who sit in the bleachers and wonder why Joe Prospect is still struggling after a few months of play when there are plenty of Proven Veterans on other teams that can be grafted onto the Cubs lineup.

Because the front office and the fans are of one mind in Chicago's North Side, the Cubs brain trust usually tries filling every hole by trolling for Proven Veterans. Proven Veterans, you see, are the mediocre regulars that have a fluke season at the peak of their career, make it as a backup in the All-Star game, and then are seen as good investments by stupid organizations.

Mickey Morandini is my favorite example. Morandini was an average regular second baseman who had an above-average season with the Phillies in 1997, hitting .295 at the age of 31. The Cubs stuck with him, and it worked for a while, as Morandini hit .296 in 1998 and the Cubs won the wild card.

And of course, in the Wrigley atmosphere of delirious, unconditional love, Morandini became a fan favorite. He was scrappy, he was tough, and he did all the little things (even if he didn't do most of the big things, which are much more important).

Now that they were "winners," there was no question in anyone's mind that the Cubs would keep guys like Morandini on. The Cubs made virtually no changes in the offseason, and had no backup plan at second base in case Morandini wasn't as cuddly the second time around.

Of course, it failed; the Cubs tanked the next year, and this year have the worst record in the majors. Morandini is long gone. This is not how good teams operate. Anyone not blinded by Wrigleyitis could've told you that Morandini was a mediocre player, of the variety that almost always, as a group, decline precipitously when they reach their early-to-mid 30s.

The Atlanta Braves, for example, have always stayed one step ahead of this natural process of decay. They've survived by constantly rotating their teams, by buying low and selling high, by winning and then not remaining complacent. "Thank you for your service, Terry Pendleton," they say, "but this kid Chipper Jones needs to play, and you're just not getting any better any time soon."

Or a better example: What if the Cubs had traded Mark Grace after that 1998 season? Right now they'd be without a below-average first baseman who is only getting older and less productive, and they'd be playing some young, much cheaper talent that would improve upon the Augie Ojedas and Gary Mathews Jr.s currently taking up space in their lineup.

This isn't a crazy idea. The Twins traded local favorite Chuck Knoblauch to get a pack of promising youngsters who are now forming the core of their future hopes: Eric Milton, Cristian Guzman, etc.

Minnesota fans, you see, know how to hold a team accountable. When fans stop showing up, they send a message that even avaricious owners read loud and clear. Drastic actions were necessary with the Twins after they stuck too long with Gary Gaetti and Kent Hrbek, and the Twins front office has been (a little too slowly, mind you) putting an earnest rebuilding program in place.

And to do it they had to annoy the fans; Minnesota was up in arms when they lost Knoblauch. Can you imagine what the Cub faithful would do if Mark Grace was traded for a bunch of guys they'd never heard of?

They'd yell and scream like the ignorant yuks they are. Maybe they'd stop coming in droves to Wrigley field, in protest. And maybe that's exactly what the Cubs need, really -- to have that crutch kicked out from under them. They'd have to get their hands dirty, struggle, rebuild for real, and maybe come out of it with a good ballclub.

But Cubs management would never be that bold. It's all about love in Chicago, the kind of stifling, oppressive love that doesn't let anything grow. Like Norman Bates and his mother.

When the Cubs win, the fans and the front office are stunned with happiness; when the Cubs lose, the fans shrug their shoulders with a bemused smile, and stick to an unrealistic, deluded optimism about "next year." There's never any real competitive fire underneath the front offices' duffs. The Cubs are a spoiled child, spared the rod too often by their fun-loving fans. Time to get mad, Cubs fans.

Agree? Disagree? Think I'm an arrogant bastard? Drop me a line and tell me.