Joy deserves its moments, however misplaced in the larger picture. So seeing the Cubs squirting champagne on each other after achieving the bare minimum of success can be taken in the spirit of the occasion.
That would be the spirit of relief, disbelief and, for the Cubs, infrequency.
The Cubs have earned the right to dance and strut and hug each other for lesser achievements than coming in last on the postseason invitation list.
Most years just getting to the ballpark on time deserves a gold star and clean socks.
It has been a week of clubhouse celebrations, each one wetter and louder than the last, yet redundant and familiar. Being happy has become a duty, far beyond mere congratulations. It isn’t real without the mess.
Champagne is the liquid gush of gloat and it has been since the night they invented champagne. And better on the outside than the inside. Champagne is the worst-tasting stuff this side of Gatorade; it’s fluid yogurt. And, apparently, it burns your eyes too.
Sodas are also fizzed and aimed at fellow warriors, non-alcoholic sprays, a bit for safety but also in consideration of players who might have alcohol problems, and they know who they are.
Not to set a bad example for the kids — always think about the kids. One imagines a child getting some errant spray during the inevitable salute to the fans and licking his lips and finding he has been splashed with ginger ale instead of demi sec. It would break his heart.
“Say it ain’t so, Kris. Say it ain’t so.”
You sigh to acknowledge that happiness, which should be spontaneous and impulsive, has become staged and amped, rehearsed and mechanical, familiar and commercial.
Protective sheeting is strung up in clubhouses displaying sponsors’ names, rather like those logoed backdrops at news conferences where the wisdom of winners seems brought to you by banks and health care.
The most obvious illustration of the fine art of theatrical happiness are the goggles. Ski goggles now, but can a welder’s mask be far behind? Why not do the whole thing behind a giant sneeze guard?
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Protection from joy does not accentuate joy. It just makes it seem dishonest. Does the first baseman dancing around with ski goggles and a rain slicker really have his heart in the moment?
Boastful T-shirts and ballcaps materialize as if achievement itself is the tailor. On sale tomorrow, by the way.
Ah, just another piggyback by commerce, like the question to the winner about what he is going to do now that he has won it all.
“I’m going to Disney World!”
What about a wild-card entry? Now that you have won almost nothing, what are you going to do? “I’m going to 7-Eleven!”
You do wonder what the Cubs do next, should they defeat the Pirates in their single-game audition for the real October. And what comes after that, should they advance through the layers of playoffs? Each achievement would be greater than the last and require a greater salute.
I would imagine that should they actually win the World Series, nothing less than 50-year single-malt scotch would be the beverage of choice. I recommend a Glenfiddich at $16,000 a bottle, and this leaves room for some Courvoisier (running into six figures) in case they do it again.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, much as the Cubs — and the Pirates, Dodgers, Royals, Blue Jays and the rest — have done.
There is no set procedure, and with as many as 19 opportunities to celebrate as the playoffs shrink to a final champion, a little order is in order. Anniversaries have established rewards, like paper for the first, wood for the fifth and so on, leading up to gold and diamonds. Why not start with O’Doul’s and work up to Dom Perignon?
The point is, you do not give gold for a third year of marriage (leather), lest there be no greater prize for later.
Or maybe forgo the whole manipulated ritual altogether, if it is so dangerous that protective safety gear is required.
And if one celebration is all you get, well, you have your selfies and your street shoes stayed dry.
Bernie Lincicome is a special contributor to the baiduhai.