A meaningless eighth run crosses the plate on a Juan Pierre single. At this point, it doesn’t even matter. The Cubs’ shot at winning their first National League pennant since 1945 has completely disappeared in the minds of everyone watching.
Never mind the fact the team still had a do-or-die Game 7 ahead of them. Not only that, but they would hand the ball to fireballing Texan Kerry Wood, the ace of the staff, in the deciding contest. None of that seemed to matter watching the events of Game 6 unfold.
It was the curse.
To those who never rooted for the Cubs or even the Red Sox don’t understand. After years upon years, decades upon decades of unthinkable losses and meltdowns, you eventually believe in it as much as anything. It’s not rational – deep down we all knew that after that game. We knew it watching Game 7 of the World Series last year when Rajai Davis tied the game with a homer down the line.
But the thought was there.
With the talk of goats and Bartman and a ball grounded through Leon Durham’s legs behind them, the Chicago Cubs can move on, closing the door on being the cursed laughingstock of baseball. But on a cold night in October 2003, cursed was the word on everyone’s mind.