He has come for me.
My adonis is here, bearing a club to destroy any spheroid objects that threaten the dreams we have built together. We have a shared purpose, a common goal, he and I.
None of that matters now. All that I care about is that he is here, for me, in his silly blue hat, white pin stripped jersey, and with his cut figure fit for a Greek god of antiquity (or an extra in 300, either way).
Any anxiety I have felt before this moment, is gone. All that remains is us. Together. I allow myself a moment to get lost in his eyes before he gives a wink and proceeds to do what he does best.
Take motherfuckers deep.
Giancarlo Stanton is here, in a Cubs uniform. The uneasiness in my Cubs heart is laid to rest at the image, and all is fine in my baseball dreamworld.
I have loved Giancarlo from afar for a long time now. I studied him when he was Mike and I was alone. I looked at the body of his work early in the predawn hours, lusting after the player who’s ultimate ceiling seemed to have no boundaries.
And he slugged away, becoming a myth whose statistical truths do not tell the whole story of “The Giancarlo.” He has never slugged below .500 in the world’s toughest baseball league. He has never failed to hit 20 HR’s. The basement for Giancarlo is “All-Star.”
The ceiling is something that I am hesitant to express in public.
His legend has grown and he has turned into the perennial MVP candidate I knew he could be. If the Marlins are smart he is untouchable. My dreams will remain just that, a hopeless manifestation of my baseball lust for a transcendent baseball player.
If they are the Marlins, however, my baseball heart can still dare to dream of a future with Giancarlo close, and I can hope for visions of him on top of a bus, carrying the ultimate baseball trophy around Waveland and getting showered in confetti.
The dream is impossible, and the entire concept of the Cubs acquiring Stanton is an old reflex of a regime that never was. The Cubs have never pulled off a move for a player like Stanton in my lifetime.
As I look down the barrel of another 90+ loss season, impossible dreams are all I have.
Well, that and Stanton posters.