Seperating head from soul: The Greg leaves Chicago

August 1st, 2006 | Posted by PostmanE

It’s easy to find a proper excuse for why the Cubs had to trade Greg Maddux. He’s not great anymore, and his $9 million deal is a bit too much to stomach on even the healthiest of payroll appetites.

The reality is, though, that the Cubs had to trade anyone. Jim Hendry had to do something. His name hasn’t risen above culpability for this season’s malaise quite far enough; this team, while thoughtfully constructed, just isn’t built the way it had to be to insure success. Where’s the relief pitching? Where are the extra starters? Where are the non-Cedeno, non-Murton prospects to fill holes inevitably created when the injury duo (Prior, Wood) go down again? This team had no backup plan, no insurance policy, and Hendry had to trade Maddux today, lest he look unconcerned.

All that’s well and good, but the problem is: I really, really like Greg Maddux. He’s still functionally good (his WHIP was 1.28 as of the trade; not fantastic, but not horrid), and owns - dare I say the naughty word - intangibles. (Gasp!) He brings a bit of experience and leadership to a clubhouse that hasn’t been stable the entire year.

But that’s not the only reason I like him. Maddux was the Cub gone Brave success story. He left the tortured franchise early in his career to go off and do miraculous things. And then he came back, full of the promise of redemption, ready to bolster a dynamic, fireballing rotation with a little veteran moxy.

It didn’t happen. That’s obvious. It’s also obvious that this is probably an OK trade for the Cubs, that Maddux wasn’t doing much good in Chicago for much longer. It doesn’t help, of course, that acquiring Cesar Izturis is about as exciting as acquiring a Cesar Izturis Donruss rookie edition. Not a whole lot of value here.

So the emotional attachment is still there. And for all of the rigors of intelligent observation, the glaring thought that Mad Dog could have ended his career in Wrigley, spilling from the dugout onto the field after a routine World Series-ending ground ball, is a sharp pang. Like seeing Michael vulnerable to mortality, it doesn’t at all feel acceptable.