Hello, friends. Pull up a chair. Pour something warm. Let’s debrief.

First, a Quick Note on Politics

I’m taking a break from politics. Not forever. Just long enough for my blood pressure to remember what it was doing before 2015. If you came here looking for a hot take on the news cycle, I regret to inform you that I have logged off, touched grass, and fed a duck. The duck didn’t have opinions either, and we got along great.

So. Onward to things that matter: baseball, motherhood, and my ongoing war with the Texas Rangers.

The Cubs Lost 6–0, And I Need You to Understand How Weird That Is

Listen. I have to brag for a minute. Sit down. Get comfortable. This is not your dad’s Cubs team. This is not even last year’s Cubs team. This year’s squad is 27–13, leading the NL Central by a comfortable four games over the Cardinals, and tied with the Atlanta Braves for the best record in all of Major League Baseball. The whole league. Thirty teams. We are tied for first. I had to lie down when I typed that.

The numbers are absurd. 215 runs scored in 40 games — roughly 5.4 per game, which in baseball terms is “rude.” Run differential of +56. The Pythagorean record actually says we should be 25–14, meaning we’re somehow outperforming an already-dominant statistical profile. The math is happy. The math is doing little math cartwheels.

Now let me introduce you to the people responsible:

• Moisés Ballesteros, our DH, is hitting .378 with a 1.031 OPS. A one-point-oh-three-one OPS. He looks like he wandered into the wrong league and is just too polite to mention it.
• Nico Hoerner is hitting .319 with 29 hits, seven stolen bases, and an .885 OPS. He plays second base like the position personally owes him money.
• Ian Happ has six homers, 11 RBI, and a .900 OPS, and is generally menacing baseballs on a daily basis.
• Dansby Swanson has five homers, 15 RBI, and 20 runs scored, which I think technically makes him a one-man offense.
• Carson Kelly, our catcher, is slashing .316 / .418 / .474. Catchers aren’t supposed to do that. Somebody check his bat for corked secrets.
• And oh yeah — Alex Bregman is on this team now. A two-time World Series champion. Just casually playing third base in Wrigley like it’s a Tuesday errand. I still flinch every time I see him in blue.

And here’s the kicker: this group can also catch the ball. A few weeks ago I was talking baseball with Chris Boaz, and I told him flat out — this is maybe the best infield in baseball. I stand by it. Now that Bregman is wedged in at the hot corner, I’m not even hedging anymore.

The defensive numbers are obnoxious:

• Nico Hoerner is currently sitting at 7 Outs Above Average at second base — a figure trailing only Bobby Witt Jr. in all of MLB. Last year he led every second baseman in baseball in DRS (17), OAA (14), and FRV (12). Not “led the NL.” Led the sport.
• Dansby Swanson at short co-led all of baseball in OAA from 2023 through 2024 with a frankly silly cumulative 37. Two-time Gold Glover. Built like the position was invented for him.
• Bregman brings a Gold Glove of his own to third, which means three of our four infield spots are manned by guys with hardware on the shelf.
• And out in center, Pete Crow-Armstrong is also sitting at 7 OAA, with a 95% catch success rate against an 87% expected rate, and a 5.5-foot jump on fly balls that’s first in baseball by a mile. He’s not technically infield, but he’s close enough that I’m including him out of pride.

The Cubs won the Rawlings Gold Glove Team Award last season. They finished 2nd in all of MLB in Defensive Runs Saved (84), trailing only — hold on, let me check my notes — yes, the Texas Rangers. Cool. Cool cool cool. Good for them. Moving on.

Which is why yesterday’s 6–0 belly flop in Texas was so jarring. The Rangers — currently 18–21, a sub-.500 team — somehow pitched a shutout against a lineup that has been bullying the National League since April. It’s like watching a Michelin-starred chef get out-cooked by a vending machine. By a vending machine in an airport. By a vending machine in an airport that only sells Combos.

Did I yell at my TV? Maybe. Did the dog leave the room? Yes. Did I rationalize the whole thing inside of eleven seconds by checking the standings, going “yeah, but Ballesteros is hitting .378,” and pouring myself a victory beverage anyway? You bet I did.

One bad game out of forty, in a season where this team has the same number of wins as the Braves, is what we statisticians call “a Tuesday.” Except it was Saturday. Whatever. Sunday’s game starts at 11:35 AM, and the brisket-eating shall be repaid.

Padres Fans, Today We Feast

Meanwhile, down here in San Diego, the Padres FINALLY got one in the win column against the Cardinals, 4–2. They had been losing in increasingly creative ways — first by one run, then by a delightful six-run faceplant — and a lesser team would have crumbled. Or, you know, played like the Cubs.

But yesterday, the Padres remembered they were professional baseball players, briefly, and won a baseball game. The streets of San Diego erupted in modest, sun-soaked celebration. Someone tipped their hat. A surfer nodded approvingly at the ocean. It was a whole moment.

And Now, The Real Headline: It’s Mother’s Day

Okay. Stop scrolling for one second.

Today is Mother’s Day, and I want you to do something: take a beat and actually think about your mom. Or whoever the mom-shaped person in your life was. I’ll wait.

Here’s the thing — Mother’s Day is sort of like Veterans Day, but more personal. I mean that with love and full respect. Veterans Day honors the people who fought for the country you live in. Mother’s Day honors the person who fought to bring you into existence in the first place. Without her, you don’t even get to have a country opinion. You don’t get the duck. You don’t get the Cubs heartbreak. You don’t get any of it.

She was there before the political news cycle, before the box scores, before you had a personality (debatable). She showed up. She made sacrifices that you probably still don’t fully understand and may not until you’re old enough to wear a jacket “just in case.” She put up with phases. Phases, plural.

In my case, that meant the 80s music chapter — synth-heavy Depeche Mode – Safety Dance bleeding through a closed bedroom door. Then the alternative rock turn that followed: grunge flannel, jeans she’d specifically begged me to retire, hair that had a personal feud with shampoo, and the firm conviction that Pearl Jam was less a band than a worldview. And then — plot twist — I came home from boot camp with a high-and-tight, called her ma’am at the dinner table, and ironed creases into things she didn’t even know could be ironed.

Three completely different kids. One mother. Zero complaints.

And she stayed.

So today, call her. Text her. Bring her brunch. Hug her if she’s the kind of mom who likes hugs, and stand respectfully near her if she’s not. Tell her you noticed.

If she’s no longer around, I’m sorry, and I think she’d be glad you’re still out here trying. Maybe pour one out. Maybe have the brunch anyway, in her honor. Order whatever she would’ve stolen off your plate.

In Conclusion

Yesterday: Cubs bad, Padres good, ducks neutral.

Today: Hug your mother. Eat the pancakes. The political news will still be there tomorrow, doing its thing. The Cubs will (probably, statistically, please) bounce back on Sunday, and the world will keep spinning.

And we’ll all be here because, somewhere along the line, a woman did something extraordinary and called it Tuesday.

Happy Mother’s Day. ♥