Rob Letterly is a husband, father and Cubs fan, in that order, never mind his vocation, religious affiliation, etc. Of course, prior to his marriage(s) and fatherhood(s), he would primarily characterize himself as a Cubs fan, then whatever else came after that.
In August of 1969, Robbie was an overweight ADHD 5-year-old who loved nothing more than twirling around the clothesline poles. One day that month, his old man interrupted his twirling and beckoned him inside to "see something important. This has never happened before." (sic) It was a Cubs game on TV, namely, the First-Place-Cubs, with Kenny Holtzman on the mound, who hadn't given up a hit that day. The old man had the game on, not just because WGN was one of the four channels available at the time, but because that year the old man was a huge First-Place-Cubs fan. He wanted his son to witness "history". It made an impression on Robbie, alright. In fact, it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.
They about died when Hank Aaron hit his blast to left, and they exhaled when it blew back into Billy Williams' mitt. As we all know, Holtzman got his no-hitter, Robbie jumped up and down in excitement, the floor in that cheap rental house caved in, and he was hooked. Robbie was, not his old man. For THAT known Front-Runner quit watching soon as the Cubs dropped out of the race, and in fact thereafter, he took up bitching whenever Robbie had the game on. But he had the Cubs fever, and during games, whenever his old man would try to turn the channel to whatever war movie or western he wanted to watch, Rob would jump on him and rhythmically kick his groin until it got switched back on Channel 9.
Sure, the Cubs have tested Rob, repeatedly, over lo these many years, and he ain't exactly the most stable element on the chart, anyway. For example, he couldn't defecate during an entire 12-game Cubs losing streak in 1973. To this day, he always equates a Cubs win with Blessed Relief. In college, Rob spent most of his student loan funds to put deposits on renting a big-screen TV, hot dog maker and portable bleachers in preparation of watching the 1984 World Series, just the first of his many great investments. He rammed his new car into a concrete median barrier when LaTroy Hawkins bounced a throw to first base off of a Phillie runner's helmet in 2005. Rob vented his spleen daily, and furiously, on The Uncouth Sloth from 2002 until the day his lockjaw, dogassed employer fired him for searching for cheesecake babe photos for the site. Now Rob makes nice here on a semi-regular basis.
God knows Rob's spiteful and bitter whenever he sees the Cubs take a step or two backwards. But to this day, every time the game comes on, his heart skips. There ain't no patch, no Methadone for him, he's a junkie. And someday, hopefully before he dies, the Cubs will win the ultimate prize, and it will be as if we all have won. When it happens, one way, or another, at all costs, Rob will witness it in person. He'd kill his mother, and/or yours, to get his fat ass in there.