I’m not one of those people who love the Cubs. I can honestly take or leave the Cubs. I do love the idea of the Cubs winning the World Series, but I also love the idea of having “disposable income.” It’s a good thing I don’t know what I’m missing, or I might go crazy.

I am already purportedly crazy given the Spanish non de plume of my alter ego columnist personality. I have always wondered why the name is in Spanish and not English. Pride has occasionally prompted me to tell people that it’s a typo intended as “Local” because I lived in Wrigleyville for over 10 years, not including four months of self-imposed exile to Georgia after I lost a job and really went crazy.

I also wonder how I seem to have actually gained hair since my column photo was taken seven years ago. But the wind was blowing in from the lake that January day as I  stood in front of the Harry Caray statue while the camera clicked. That probably explains it.

I wish I had the depth of feeling to feel love for the Cubs. I just don’t have it. I am mildly expressive in this column but deep down I am shallow in my feelings towards the Cubs. Maybe it’s because in Cub years I am only 26 years old.

I relocated to Chicago in 1984 and went to virtually every Cubs home game after the All-Star break that year. I lost a job at a grocery store by failing to show for a third shift while I camped overnight on Waveland Avenue waiting to get in the bleachers on a September Saturday.

Maybe by the time I’m “30” I will begin to mature and feel love for the Cubs, but only if one key condition hasn’t changed. They cannot win the World Series in the meantime. It will ruin everything and I will never grow up. I will become spoiled rotten and never again accept bricks and ivy and beer over winning.

I wish I could tell a personal and heartfelt story about Ron Santo. I met him once, in June 2003 during an ESPN event including a dunk tank, prior to a Cubs-Yankees game at Wrigley. He was in a crowded, makeshift tent filled with media, autograph seekers and retired players. I approached him and exuberantly said that I was with The Heckler. He just looked at me like I was crazy.

By Rob C. Christiansen