But soft, what light through yonder Wrigley breaks? O…it is my Cubbies, oh, it is my team President. O that he knew he were. He speaks, yet he says nothing; what of that? His eye discourses, I will answer it. Oh, I am too bold, ’tis not to me he speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heavens, having some business, do entreat his eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. See how he leans his cheek upon his hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek.
O Theo, Theo, wherefore art thou Theo? Deny thy Red Sox, and refuse thy Boston. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my rather large paycheck, and I’ll no longer be a Lovable Loser…’Tis but thy name that is my enemy, thou art thyself, though, not a Henry. What is Henry? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O be some other name. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Theo would, were he not Theo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Theo doff thy BoSox, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all Cubs Nation.