By Pat Cashman

Once again for Mariner fans, the baseball playoffs have arrived---and Seattle is right in the thick of…watching it…on TV. So let’s bring up the name of a non-Northwesterner.

If you don’t remember the name Steve Bartman---then you’ve made Steve Bartman a very happy man. But Chicago Cub fans will never forget Bartman. Ever.

Even if Cubs should somehow make their way to the World Series in coming days, the pitiable wretch Bartman is no more likely to be forgiven than Hitler. After all, it was Bartman---not Hitler---who inadvertently deflected a foul ball in game 6 of the National League championship series in 2003---and immediately became a pariah in the windy city.

In a town where fun guys like Al Capone and John Dillinger used to hold sway---Steve Bartman may still be considered the more odious criminal by thousands of Cub fans.

This is the city where heads were knocked in---out in the streets during the 1968 democratic convention. It prompted Mayor Daley to famously say: “The police aren’t out there causing disorder. The police are out there to preserve disorder.”

Yet in the pantheon of Chicago’s most infamous moments, Steve Bartman’s foul ball foul-up is right up there---and somehow he is the hapless fall guy for the collapse of an entire baseball team. The full details of Bartman’s ignominy can be read here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Bartman_incident

It’s ridiculous, of course, to blame Bartman for the Cubs’ own bumbling---but then, the lives of we scapegoats are never fair. Yes, we scapegoats. (Or should it be us?) The point is, we’ve all been one at some time or other, haven’t we? Just not on national TV, like poor Bartman.

I remember in the second grade when Carla Deutcher barfed in the lunchroom---but Dan
Rutherford got blamed for it because he was eating an egg salad sandwich and he kept opening his mouth and making her look at it. (“Hey Carla, do you like see food?”)

A friend of mine, Bob, was recently standing in a group of co-workers at his office place, when he noticed that the air had suddenly become malodorous. Everyone in the group began looking around---and even though Bob was innocent, he also realized that he was the immediate suspect. He was, after all, the only man in the group.

He told me that he couldn’t think of a single thing to do about it. “What was I gonna say? Excuse me ladies; did one of you just toot? “A man of quiet dignity---in the time-honored tradition of “He who smelt it, dealt it”---Bob took the fall.

Being the oldest kid in a family of five brothers, I seemed to be in the enviable position of pinning the blame for every little thing on one of my younger brothers---but the reverse was usually the case. I took the rap for just about every wayward offense in our family.

“You’re the oldest---you should know better.” Yes, my mom would roll out that chestnut. (I was tempted to point out that she and Dad were actually the oldest, but wisely resisted.)
One time, while baby-sitting a brother, I looked up from my cereal bowl to notice that he’d just set a stack of newspapers on fire. After putting out the fire, I then proceeded on to my next task: pounding my brother.
When my parents got home, not only did I get grounded for smacking the little pyromaniac (on the arm)---but also for using my mom’s best dishtowel to put out the inferno.

If only the Cubs had gone on to win in 2003, Steve Bartman would have been quickly forgotten in Chicago---his offense instantly expunged. It might have been just that way for him with a little luck.
It happened to me once---I became a goat and an odd kind of hero---all in one afternoon. I was playing basketball a few years ago on a team in a rat league. It was a big game against the league’s best team---but we were seriously undermanned: We had just five players. It was crucial that nobody fouled out.

Before the first quarter had ended---with our team trailing by eight points---I picked up a cheap hacking foul on the other team’s best shooter. It was my fifth. I had fouled out of the game. I was the deserving whipping boy for what would be a certain defeat for my four remaining teammates.

It was then that I---Pat the patsy---avoided their gaze, left the gym and drove home.

But later that afternoon, a teammate called me on the phone: “Hey Cashman, good news! We won the game! You hacked their hotshot shooter so badly that he sprained his index finger and couldn’t make a basket the rest of the game! Good job, man!”
So if by some chance Steve Bartman happens to read this, remember: Fouls can be your enemy---and sometimes your friend.

Still, you might consider moving to Europe until the next hundred years blow over.

pat@patcashman.com
Pat can be seen on a brand new sketch show “Up Late NW” airing Saturdays on KING 5 and throughout Washington and Oregon. He also co-hosts a weekly on-line talk show: Peculiarpodcast.com