The line I use about being a Cub fan is that, above all else, it requires a deep commitment to overwhelming institutional mediocrity.  Of course, this is meant as a joke, but the sad part is that, like any attempt at humor, when it works, it's because there's truth behind it.  In this case, about 100 years worth. 

Which raises, I suppose, the perfectly logical question of "why?" Why follow a team that so consistently fails expectations? Why be a fan of a club that at various points in its history can be legitimately accused of not trying very hard to get better? Why torture yourself year after year when realistic assessments tell you time and again that your hope is a fool's hope?

The answer for me, and for many of you, I'd guess, is love.  Somewhere along the line, against your better judgment, you fell in love with the Chicago Cubs.  The method doesn't matter.  Whether you came into it because of your father, or the teevee, or seeing a special player strut their stuff on the cool, green grass, we're all in the same boat.  This isn't shiny-happy, picket-fence-two-kids-and-a-dog love.  This is messy, nasty, dish-breaking, knife-throwing, toss-your-stuff-on-the-lawn, make-up-sex, five-breakup, late-night-stalking, restraining-order-love.  It's an "I wish I knew how to quit you" thing that none of us has the answer to, much as we wish we might.