Winning fixes everything. That's what they say, right? But for seventy-one years, the North Side of Chicago felt like it was stuck in a glitch. People blamed a goat. Not just any goat, but a smelly, tavern-owning Greek immigrant's pet named Murphy. Honestly, if you told a non-baseball fan that a major American sports franchise was held hostage by the ghost of a farm animal, they’d think you were losing it.
The Chicago Cubs curse of the billy goat wasn't just some cute marketing gimmick. It was a heavy, suffocating cloud that hovered over Waveland Avenue. It was the reason grown men cried in 1984, 1989, and 2003. It was a cultural identity built on the premise of inevitable failure. To understand why 2016 felt like a literal exorcism, you have to look at the weird, gritty details of what went down during Game 4 of the 1945 World Series.
The Rainy Day That Changed Everything
It was October 6, 1945. World War II had just ended. The Cubs were actually good back then, believe it or not. They were playing the Detroit Tigers. Enter William "Billy Goat" Sianis, the owner of the Lincoln Tavern. He showed up to Wrigley Field with two tickets—one for himself and one for his goat, Murphy. He wanted the goat to bring the team luck.
Security didn't see it that way.
They let him in initially. Sianis and Murphy even paraded around the grass before the game started. But then the sky opened up. The rain started coming down, and that wet goat began to stink. Like, really stink. Fans complained. P.K. Wrigley, the team owner, reportedly sent a message to the gate: "Admit the man, but not the goat." When Sianis was told the goat couldn't stay because of the odor, he was livid.
He threw his hands up and supposedly shouted, "The Cubs ain't gonna win no more. The Cubs will never win a World Series so long as the goat is not allowed into Wrigley Field."
The Cubs lost that game. They lost the Series. And for the next seven decades, they didn't even make it back to the Fall Classic. Sianis even sent a telegram to Wrigley after the Series loss: "Who stinks now?"
That's cold.
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Close Calls and Black Cats
You can't talk about the Chicago Cubs curse of the billy goat without mentioning 1969. That team was loaded. Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Billy Williams, Ferguson Jenkins. They were in first place for 155 days. Then, in September, they went to Shea Stadium to play the Mets.
A literal black cat ran onto the field.
It didn't just run anywhere. It circled Ron Santo while he was in the on-deck circle. It stared him down. The Cubs collapsed. They went 8-17 in September while the "Miracle Mets" surged past them. It felt like the goat was calling in favors from other supernatural entities. It was weird, man.
Then came 1984. The Cubs were up 2-0 in a best-of-five against the Padres. They needed one more win. Leon Durham had a routine ground ball go right through his legs in Game 5. Game over. Curse wins.
The Night Everything Broke: 2003
Most people remember the Steve Bartman incident. It’s the most painful chapter of the Chicago Cubs curse of the billy goat saga. Five outs away. That’s all they needed. Five outs to reach the World Series for the first time since Sianis got kicked out.
Mark Prior was dealing. Luis Castillo hit a foul ball toward the left-field stands. Bartman reached for it. Moises Alou went ballistic. The floodgates didn't just open; they disintegrated. Alex Gonzalez, a sure-handed shortstop, botched a double-play ball that would have ended the inning. The Marlins scored eight runs.
It wasn't Bartman's fault. Honestly, it wasn't. But when you’re a fan base conditioned to believe in a hex, you look for a face to put on your misery. The goat wasn't there, so Bartman became the goat. The team flew to Florida for Game 7 and looked like they had seen a ghost. They lost. Again.
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Science, Psychology, or Just Bad Luck?
Some people, like stats guru Bill James or the guys over at Baseball Prospectus, would tell you there’s no such thing as a curse. They’d point to poor scouting, a lack of investment in pitching, and the "Wrigley Factor"—the idea that playing day games in the sun wore players out by September.
But sports isn't played in a spreadsheet. It’s played in the head.
When every player who puts on a Cubs jersey is asked about a goat from 1945, it starts to matter. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You press harder. You squeeze the bat tighter. You expect the ball to go through your legs because that's what happens to Cubs players. The Chicago Cubs curse of the billy goat was a psychological weight. It was a narrative that the players couldn't escape until Theo Epstein arrived.
Epstein didn't care about goats. He cared about "expected weighted on-base average" and building a farm system. He brought in Joe Maddon, a guy who literally brought a "Zuluthe" (a professional psychic) and various farm animals to the clubhouse to lighten the mood. You kill a curse by mocking it.
The Rain Delay Exorcism
November 2, 2016. Game 7 in Cleveland. The Cubs had blown a 5-1 lead. Rajai Davis hit a home run off Aroldis Chapman that felt like a dagger to the heart of every person in Chicago. It was happening again. The goat was laughing.
Then it rained.
Just like in 1945. But this time, the rain didn't lead to an eviction; it led to a meeting. Jason Heyward pulled the team into a weight room. He told them they were the best team in baseball. He told them to forget the past.
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When play resumed in the 10th inning, Ben Zobrist hit a double. Miguel Montero drove in another. The Cubs won 8-7. The Chicago Cubs curse of the billy goat was officially, finally, dead.
The celebration wasn't just about a trophy. It was about relief. It was the collective exhale of millions of people who no longer had to explain why a tavern owner's pet mattered.
Moving Past the Hex
If you're looking for the "lesson" in all this, it's pretty basic. Tradition is great, but don't let it become a cage. The Cubs spent years trying to apologize to the Sianis family. They invited Sam Sianis (Billy's nephew) and his goats to the field multiple times to "break" the curse. It never worked because you can't bargain with a ghost. You have to outplay it.
Actionable Takeaways for the Modern Fan
If you find yourself following a "cursed" team—whether it's the Lions, the Jets, or anyone else—keep these things in mind:
- Personnel over Poltergeists: Winning happens because of drafting, development, and coaching. The Cubs didn't win because the goat got bored; they won because Kris Bryant and Anthony Rizzo were superstars.
- The Narrative is Optional: Players who weren't raised in the culture of "losing" (like the 2016 Cubs roster) don't carry the same baggage. Look for teams that bring in outsiders to change the clubhouse vibe.
- Embrace the Weirdness: The goat story is part of what makes baseball great. It's theater. Enjoy the lore, but don't let it ruin your weekend when a ground ball takes a bad hop.
The 1945 incident remains a bizarre footnote in American history. It reminds us that sports are a mix of high-level athleticism and total, irrational superstition. Today, the "Billy Goat Tavern" is still a staple in Chicago. You can go there, get a "cheezborger," and see the photos of Murphy. But now, it’s just a cool story. The teeth have been pulled. The goat is just a goat again.
Next Steps for Deep Diving into Cubs History
If you want to see the specific mechanics of how the 2016 roster was built to withstand the pressure, look into the trades for Kyle Hendricks and Jake Arrieta. Those moves, more than any "curse-breaking" ceremony, are why the trophy is currently sitting in the Wrigley Field archives. You can also visit the Chicago History Museum to see artifacts from the 1945 Series, which provide a more grounded look at the era before the myth took over the city.