The End of the Curse

I heard a creak from somewhere within the wretched temple walls. Something, likely from age, was giving way. I looked around, but I could not see anything changing in my immediate surroundings. Then I peered back into the entrance to the very center of the Earth. The massive billy goat statue, enthroned upon a chair made black by years of anguish, was groaning. Its eyes began to flash a fiery red.

Shrieks, moans, and cries emanated from the walls within the throne room. I felt the wisps of spirits trapped for a hundred years pass over me like a foul mist. I had only moments to spare.

"Stanley, get the sandbag!"

My partner lugged in a large sack, about as heavy as the World Series trophy. I reached in and took a handful of the fine dust. "Perfect," I said. Stanley began to carry it to the pedestal before the accursed goat. The pedestal, though, began to smoke.

"Hurry, Stanley!"
"It's too late, man. Next Year has come."

On the pedestal began to materialize a round, golden disc, which grew taller by the second. A silver baseball emerged from its center and filled it like a bulging lake. Golden flags began to rise around the disc's edge. The phrase "World Champions" etched itself into the newly-formed trophy. The pedestal began to glow, and the smoke from the trophy transformed into a plaque that read "2016".

We had ventured so far to prevent this. The Curse of the Billy Goat had been lifted just a week earlier. The Indians, we thought, would save us, but these terrifying Cubs fought back. Now, it seemed the spirits of ballgames and curses of long ago had been liberated by one final victory. The temple, built as a monument to futility, was due to collapse at any moment.

"Run!" I cried to Stanley. We sprinted for the exit, but a column bearing an etching of Steve Bartman's face crumbled in front of the door. We had no escape. 108 years of championship drought had left the ground too hard and dry to dig through. Neither of us were strong enough to lift the broken pieces of the column. We prepared for the end.

The Billy Goat statue let out one final groan. The statue cracked open across its furry chest. The ghost within it, the very goat who had been rejected by the Cubbies faithful seven decades earlier, leaped from the crack and ascended through the temple's ceiling. The whole room fell silent. Stanley and I waited in dread. Then, a bubbling noise filled the room, followed by chanting. The statue began to burn, and a fiery "W" appeared on its head. From the crack began to pour a flood of champagne, foamy and deadly.

I reached in my bag. "What are you doing?" my partner asked. I pulled out my sweat-stained red cap with its contrasting white "STL" monogram.

"If I'm gonna go out in a flood of champagne," I said, "I'm gonna do it the Cardinals way."