Born to two Cubs fans, my worldview was irreparably corrupted at a very young age by Jack Brickhouse and his unending sunny-side-up optimism. His unfailing belief that the Cubs would win the pennant despite being owned by a clueless gum magnate, run by baseball lifers who thought that Jose Cardenal and Jerry Morales were great hitters, and managed by doddering fools such as Preston Gomez, poisoned my young mind. The ray of light that was Bill Veeck began to lead me away from the pernicious influence of the hapless Cubs, but it was finally through the ministrations of an older brother, who pointed me toward the discovery of Bill James in an Evanston, IL, bookstore, that I finally broke free from the poisonous spell. Despite the scars incurred from Game 5 of the 1984 NL playoffs, I have recovered to lead a semi-productive existence, following both the Cubs and White Sox.