LOS ANGELES — Destiny — whatever it is, assuming it’s a thing at all — must arrive by flatbed truck, having been driven through a hard rain. A cold rain. Sleet, almost. Because it’s haggard, man. It’s unloaded weathered, done some hard miles. And every time the truck slowed down along the way, gassed up, somebody out there thought, “Hey, my destiny is here,” and yet it rumbled away. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll check tomorrow.”
The Chicago Cubs, the done-their-time Cubs of clever management and a thick-shouldered roster and 103 wins, may have some thoughts about destiny, thoughts they keep to themselves, because inevitability doesn’t generally include doing something with a two-strike, backdoor curveball on the black. What...
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