“Cubs sent home in their pajamas after series spanking by Dodgers” the headline sang in discordant tones that begged me to read while at the same time warning me of the dangers that lie within. Ever the glutton for punishment, I fell for the siren’s (there’s only one of them in this case, just so you don’t think I’m misplacing an apostrophe; yes, I’m a nerd for pointing that out) song.
You knew it was coming, though. It didn’t matter that the Cubs’ magic number is aging like Benjamin Button and is no longer able to legally buy a pint of Daisy Cutter in Wrigleyville or that they had just dropped a squeaker at the end of a West Coast swing because of a mental mistake.