Champions of the Lost Cause

Obsession, defiance, grit: The line between indomitable genius and hopeless holdout is blurred. We all have the capacity to chase unlikely dreams, but for some people, the pursuit becomes its own reward.

By Kathleen McGowan, published on March 01, 2007 - last reviewed on May 15, 2007

Being a Cubs fan transcends the devastation of losing for the simple reason that misery loves company. "There's that us-against-them mentality, and the feeling that failure gives you character—that it provides a background to help you deal with life in general," says Yellon, 49. "Life can be a series of failures, so you're a better person for dealing with adversity."

Yellon and the other regulars function like a family. They go to each other's weddings and funerals, vacation together, and take care of each others' kids. When they can't get to a game, they post online. Yellon gets up to 4,000 hits a day on his blog, bleedcubbieblue.com.

The bond among these fans is profound, says anthropologist Holly Swyers of Lake Forest College in Chicago, who studies Wrigley regulars and counts herself among them. "Each year, we all come together and share that hope. And when our hope is lost, as it frequently is, those same people buoy us up. The more you suffer at the hands of the Cubs, the deeper the ties you feel to the people who've suffered with you." If the Cubs do win, you get to celebrate with your best friends. If they lose, the disappointment only tightens the bonds.

Yellon insists that he and his allies really do want the Cubs to win. But sports psychologist Daniel Wann—yet another Cubs fan—suspects that may not be true for all. His research has shown that being a fan of any kind of team is good for your health, as fandom fosters community connections and social ties. "Those are happy people at Wrigley, because they're getting a boost to social well-being that's not contingent on the team's success," says Wann, of Murray State University in Kentucky. "There's nothing magical here—you could get that same benefit from religious affiliations or linking up with friends. It's just that there are a lot of fans."

Last Woman Standing In Last Chance, USA

Since 1980, Pam Whelden has been fighting a losing battle against a toxic waste dump in her tiny prairie town of Last Chance, Colorado. It started as a "not in my backyard" kind of thing. But over the years, the fight became a principled stand: She wasn't going to let anybody shut her up. "You learn that you've got to stand up once in a while, or they're going to walk right over the top of you," she says.

She and her husband Leroy have a 3,000-acre parcel of land just outside the crossroads of Last Chance. Leroy Whelden's grandfather homesteaded this land almost a century before, and they enjoyed the life of rural ranchers—quiet, free from big-city problems.

That all changed when a major garbage-hauling company began building a 325-acre hazardous-waste disposal site just three miles from their house. Once Whelden got wind of the plans, she began fighting the permit along with her neighbors and the local government. Predictably, it took years to even get the first major decision. Through small-town tactics like bake sales and a pickup-truck raffle, the coalition raised $250,000 for attorneys and consultants. They did manage to stall the process, but by 1991, the site was accepting hazardous waste: debris from toxic chemical cleanup, leftovers from refineries, paint residues, and contaminated wastewater from mines and remediation sites.

The landfill has changed hands six times, racking up some 2,000 safety violations and culminating in an explosion, says Whelden. In the latest twist, the current owners want to start processing low-level radioactive waste.

Whelden and her neighbors are fighting this one, too, but it's getting harder for her to find partners. Many people have grown tired of it. Besides, Last Chance is suffering in other ways. The town is fading. There are only a handful of families left. An extended drought has made it hard to find water for their cattle. Recently, the last shop and the last restaurant closed, leaving only a school and a little church—and a 64-mile round-trip commute to buy a loaf of bread.

But Whelden isn't discouraged. Nor is she bitter. She describes her 26-year losing struggle as "a good experience." Along the way, she met the governor, she testified in front of the state legislature, and she became an expert in hazardous-waste disposal, and the ins and outs of local government. "I've made a lot of friends, that's one thing that they can't take away from us," she says. "That, and the education."

Sometimes, in this kind of battle, the struggle becomes its own reward. Psychologists call it "intrinsic motivation": What keeps you in the fight is the pleasure of doing it, and the belief that it's worth doing no matter the results. The original cause is still there, but the real point becomes proving you can't be squashed. Like Rocky, you don't have to prevail in order to succeed. You just have to hang in there.

Since nothing has convinced Whelden to quit, she has, in a sense, won. "I was raised to believe that when something is not right, you want to keep trying to change that to make it right," says Whelden. "When you get your mind made up, you know you won't win many of the battles, but you may make a lot of difference along the way."

The Unrequited Lover: When Chemistry Won't Let You Quit

Steve Stonebraker hit it off with his new coworker right away. He was a grad student; she was a pretty young administrative worker. The conversation was easy and friendly. There was one problem: She lived with her boyfriend.