One baseball's claim to fame lives on

While sitting around the house Saturday, feeling all silly, a note crashed through a window like an errant screwball.

Believe it or not it was sent by another baseball, the one involved in the last out of the Cubs' last World Series championship in 1908.

“I'm contacting you,” the note read, “because a Chicago newspaper reported that some restaurant guy is offering a $50,000 reward for a lost hockey puck, which the FBI is trying to help locate and authenticate.

“Never mind that I was on an FBI hit list long ago or that the Feds always swung at me and missed.

“Now, what an outrageous reward for a puck, even if it is Patrick Kane's winner that clinched the Stanley Cup for the Blackhawks last spring.

“Tell me this: If a stinking hockey puck is worth that much, how much am I worth?

“Don't answer. The question is rhetorical. I'm not the kind of ball that's in it for the dough.

“I prefer my independence, being free to roll where I want when I want or plant my back hide down where I want when I want.

“Like, in a couple of weeks I'll disguise myself in a pair of Groucho glasses, head to spring training and conduct a clinic for bags of balls aspiring to be collectibles.

“While down there I'll check out the Cubs, my seam mates in spirit, to see whether they might devalue me by winning a championship this year.

“Don't bet on it.

“Anyway, if somebody tells you they bought and own me — the Hall of Fame, the Cubs or even Oprah — don't believe it.

“I've enjoyed life on the lam since Boss Schmidt tapped me in front of the plate, Johnny Kling threw me to first base, and Frank Chance caught me for the final out of the 1908 World Series.

“Back then I figured the Cubs would win again soon and I'd go back to being just another hunk of horsehide.

“Then we got out of World War I, out of the Great Depression, out of World War II … and there I was, still the ball to end all games.

“The Cubs were supposed to be next after both Sox doused their droughts last decade. They're still supposed to be next. They'll always be next.

“So I'm safe right here right now, though I won't reveal where right here is right now.

“Hey, FBI, catch me if you can, so to speak.

“I will say that I have lived on the streets of Chicago for most of the last 100 years, except for that trip to Hollywood in 1993 to star in ‘The Sandlot.'

“Yes, I played the role of the ball signed by Babe Ruth. That was just one of the highlights of this long, strange, meritorious trip I've been on.

“There was a time when I hung out in a cup sitting on the back bar of a Cicero tavern where Al Capone drank. I rolled around at the bottom of a merry-go-round at the 1933 World's Fair. A couple of longhair freaks tossed me around in Grant Park until all hell broke loose during the 1968 Democratic Convention.

“The past 102 seasons have been a kick. I occasionally sneak into Wrigley Field, check the sign atop the building across Sheffield Avenue and chuckle at another year perpetuating my century-long 15 minutes of fame.

“So, what's my value compared to a stinking hockey puck? The answer is in the credit-card ad I appeared in a few years ago: Priceless.

“Thank you for your time and have yourself a ball this season.”

I forwarded the note to the FBI and took a nap to relieve my silliness.