When I began writing about sports full time, too long ago, a friend told me I'd better be careful, because I'd lose five points off my IQ every year I spent on the beat. Experience has showed me that the warning was well founded, albeit a trifle dire.
There is, however, an occupation that causes a much more dramatic drain on the intellect. Anyone who goes to work for the Chicago Cubs in a managerial capacity, in the dugout or upstairs, suffers an immediate IQ drop of 50 points.
What other conclusion can be drawn from the team's record of failure, unmatched in any endeavor? The Cubs haven't won a World Series title since 1908 or a National League pennant since 1945, and haven't as much as put together back-to-back winning seasons since 1971-1972.
Carl Jung, the psychologist, posited the concept of ancestral memory, which holds that people can recall sparks of things from mankind's dawn. The Cubs' sad history raises the possibility that ancestral ineptitude can lurk within an organization.
The existence of a "Shazzam" effect is supported by the fact that men who were smart elsewhere suddenly got dumb once they became Cubs. Leo Durocher won pennants managing the New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers but couldn't capture one in Chicago. The likes of Don Baylor, Jim Lefebvre and Don Zimmer were highly regarded coming into Wrigley Field, but less so leaving it.
Blustery Dallas Green took over the Cubs' front office in 1981, off a World Series triumph with the Philadelphia Phillies. He proclaimed that he brought with him a "new tradition," but the old tradition did him in soon enough. Andy MacPhail's Twins teams won titles in Minnesota, but his tenure as CEO in richer Chicago has caused him to be redubbed "MacFail."
There are alternative theories for the Cubs' woes. One blames a curse a local bar owner placed upon the club when, in 1945, it wouldn't allow him to bring his pet goat to a game, even though he had a ticket for the animal. Another holds that the predominance of day games at Wrigley gives Cubs players too much opportunity to engage in less-than-salutary night games.
Most Cubs fans believe otherwise. They know that of baseball's four facets — hitting, pitching, defense and base-path speed — the team's brass consistently has ignored all but the first.
Since their last pennant, the Cubs have had batting champions and home-run leaders aplenty, but few players who could run fast. They had one once, in the base-stealing genius Lou Brock, but traded him as a youngster for an over-the-hill pitcher.
When it comes to pitchers, the Cubs not only haven't had many good ones, they haven't wanted the ones they've had. Ferguson Jenkins, their best starting pitcher of the 20th century's second half, was traded away in his prime. Greg Maddux became the best pitcher of the 1990s with the Atlanta Braves after the Cubs, who brought him up, balked at meeting his asking price. Dennis Eckersley was a mediocre starter for the mid-1980s Cubs. His next team, the Oakland A's, turned him into, maybe, the best reliever ever. The list goes on.
There's optimism in Cubdom this spring, largely because the team brought in Dusty Baker as its field manager. Three National League manager-of-the-year awards with the San Francisco Giants, and last year's NL pennant, make him a certified Smart Guy.
If Baker's really smart, though, he'll take some precautions before moving into his Wrigley Field office. Lining his caps with aluminum foil and drinking only bottled water would be good ones to start.
Frederick C. Klein (fklein@sportsbusinessjournal.com) is a columnist for SportsBusiness Journal.
