The true story behind why the Cubs got swept again in the postseason

by John Q. Murray

To tell you the truth, it wasn't the goat curse, and it wasn't Bartman, it was me. I am a Washington Nationals fan and a few years ago, the Cubs waved a bunch of money at Alfonso Soriano, one of our best players, and stole him away from the Nats.

So I sought out a legendary figure--our very own Wild-Eyed Mountain Man--the WEMM--to put a curse on him.

I went on a quest deep into the primeval woods of western Montana. Well, actually, I just went to the bar up in the West End and waited. I smelled him first. There was a smell as if a skunk had gotten run over on the frontage road, and then it got stronger, like a whole family of skunks had gotten hit, each by its own tire, and my eyes started watering, and the door opened, and there he was, coonskin cap and fringed jacket, looking just like the one known photo, taken from the back with a long telephoto lens so the film didn't immediately frizzle up and burst into flame.

He carried an ancient musket, complete with powderhorn, but this was no weekend re-enactor. This was the Wemm, our own living repository of Montana lore. From his long sojourns in the mountains and many encounters with sages and medicine men, he was said to know a thing or two about the spirit world.

The Wemm-meister seemed to know that I was there to see him. He stepped just inside the door, and jerked his head as if to say, Let's go.

It was a good thing that he didn't linger inside. I noticed the fellow a few seats down the bar as he gagged, his eyes rolled up into their sockets and he slid off his bar stool, unconscious. I nodded to the bartender and she clutched a handkerchief over her nose and mouth as she grabbed the phone to call West End Rescue. The good volunteers there have some oxygen equipment and could bring him back quickly. I was prepared for it and was breathing shallowly.

If the Wemmster saw all this, he didn't blink an eye. He just said, "I feel confined when I've got a roof over my head."
So I nervously cinched up my backpack and stepped out into the cold, figuring Wemmy would start leading us up a trail behind the bar, tromping the way for three days and three nights, up and down the steep valleys, all of them looking alike, the same primeval wooded valleys that have led many a poor hunter astray.

Some say the Wemm-meister is one of those lost hunters who simply decided to stay lost, but that's another story.
I anticipated him leading me on the high mountain trails in silence until I had no idea where we were or in what direction we were heading, just up into the high country, to end on some craggy outcrop on a windswept peak high above the timberline.

Instead, he circled around to the back of the building, and started rummaged around in the dumpster. "Oh yeah," he said. "They have absolutely the best prime rib here." I respectfully paused while he built up his own buffet plate, ate his fill, and wiped his mouth with a shiny sleeve.

"So, what do you think about my idea for an advice column?" he asked.

We had just worked out a plan to have Glenn Ferren interview the Wemm in the hills and impart his hard-earned nuggets of wisdom. I assured him that the column idea was wonderful and I was sure it would be very well received. "I could do a horoscope if you want," he said. For some reason, wild-eyed mountain men love newspapers. I think it must be a deep-seated part of our American heritage.

I explained my reason for seeking him out. I needed a good strong curse on Number 12, as a lesson to these big-market teams not to mess with us small-market teams. And if you could take one of the small-market perennial last-place teams--somebody ridiculous like the Tampa Bay Devil Rays--and have them take first place, that would be great, too, I told him.
His eyes gleamed. We shook hands. I still haven't quite scrubbed my fingers clean.

I recited my curse: Let Alfonso Soriano succeed during the season so that he has his manager's full confidence and stays as leadoff man. Then let him fail dismally and miserably in the post-season.

Just then we heard a screech of brakes as a semi locked up, but not fast enough to keep from thumping a wolf trotting across the road. "Good timing," said The Wemm, and he stole out, grabbed the road kill by its hind legs, and dragged it back behind the building.

Humming under his breath, he slit open the belly and pulled out the still-warm organs, and, I must confess, despite my vow to witness and document the whole ceremony, I must have gotten a little too close to him,or must have gotten into a little pocket of stagnant air there, for I keeled over.

Next thing I remember, one of the good volunteers from the West End QRU was holding an oxygen mask to my face and checking my pulse. The bartender was standing back a safe distance, still holding a handkerchief over her nose and shaking her head. It took about 30 minutes before I could head back down the mountain, and it wasn't until the next day that I realized the Wemm must have taken my backpack in payment.

But it was all worth it because the curse clearly worked. Soriano, the Cubs leadoff man, went 2-for-14 in the post-season in 2007, and the curse improved with age as he went just 1-for-14 this year. That is a batting average of .107, with no runs scored, and no runs batted in. He walked only once and struck out eight times, including the final out of the 2008 series.

Next time I might ask the WEMM not to make it so obvious, make the games closer, or be a little bit more subtle than causing all those routine ground balls in Game Two to move mysteriously at the last second. Or more subtle than causing Ryan Dempster to lose command and walk seven batters in Game One.

And I will definitely be more specific about which perennial last-place team should finish in first place. I still can't believe I suggested the Devil Rays.
###