Baseball season no longer holds the allure that it did when I was twelve which is a bit sad but, perhaps, not surprising. It's not only how the game has changed, but more the fact that I don't spend endless summer days playing pick-up games with neighborhood friends - games that would invariably end in fights which would send us all on our seperate ways until later that day.

However, baseball season always makes me think of Lola and her love of the Chicago Cubs.

I met Lola when I was about sixteen. She had to be eighty. My girlfriend at the time was a Filipina girl and family gatherings were an intregal part of her life which, for the course of our relationship, made them a part of my life. That is how I met Lola.

Lola wasn't her name but rather a term of respect for this elderly woman who was the mother of my girlfriend's aunt (I suppose she would have been her great aunt). I was introduced to her at one of the periodic family gatherings to celebrate a graduation or birth or something. These events made me feel slightly out of place and, despite my willingness to embrace the cultural differences, I always felt rather awkward.

My girlfriend introduced us and I sat down beside her as my girlfriend played hostess. We talked. It was pleasant and I felt comfortable spending time with this very elderly woman and her gentle nature.

Later, my girlfriend asked me if I had enjoyed my conversation with Lola. "Sure," I replied. "She's a sweet lady."

It was then that she informed me that Lola didn't understand English. What? She had spoken English better than many people I knew, although I had noticed odd replies to the things I had said to her - kind of like having a conversation with Rain Man - but I chalked that up to eccentricities due to her advanced age.

No, she assured me. Although Lola spoke English well, she really didn't understand it. Well, I figured that she would know and it hadn't been a chore to spend time with this woman who the rest of the family was paying little attention.

Lola lived in the Philippines and would arrive each spring to send the summer with my girlfriend's aunt and uncle, who were doctors and social gadflies. It meant that Lola was often left alone in a an empty house. My girlfriend and I would often visit her on summer afternoons as our schedules allowed, providing the only human contact she would have some days.

And Lola was always thrilled to see us. This was during the infancy of cable television and WGN was one of the few stations available to us. We would arrive to find, without fail, Lola in her recliner, watching the Cubs play (this was also before there were lights at Wrigley Field).

Lola would immediately become a whirling dervish of activity, hell-bent on treating us like royalty. I recall her supplying us with snacks, so concerned with our comfort that one might have thought we were visiting dignitaries. For some reason, there were always potato chips from an unsealed bag, so stale that they could be bent in half without breaking, but we ate them by the handful not wanting to be unappreciative guests. I suggested once that we arrive with provisions so that she wouldn't have to go to the trouble.

"She wants to go to the trouble," my girlfriend replied. I understood.

And did Lola love the Cubs. She'd howl with delight at a well-turned double play and squirm and mutter when one of her Cubs would take a called third strike to end an inning. She knew the players. She knew their batting averages. She understood the infield-fly rule. She should have been doing color commentary with Harry Carey. She was usually more entertaining than the game.

That was twenty years ago and I haven't spoken to that girlfriend in more than a decade. I'm sure that Lola has long since passed away, but every spring I can't help but think of her. Every time I channel surf and come across a Cubs game, I can't help but pause, if only for a moment. I can't help but wonder if Lola is somewhere watching, living and dying with each and every pitch.

And I always hope that, if she is watching, she's enjoying the action with someone, sharing Cokes and stale potato chips.

Quick Reference To Barely Awake In Frog Pajamas' Blog