The guy works his ass off.
Quote:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/sports/br ... story.html"What's up, Sparkles?"
The voice comes booming from the shadows, full of energy.
"Are you ready for this?"
It's a warning almost as much as a question.
David Kaplan ducks under his half-opened garage door and struts into his driveway, bounding into his morning like a puppy let off the leash at the beach. He can't wait to get going.
Just like that, he is in the driver's seat of his black Range Rover, headed downtown. Naturally, the Kapman's foot is on the accelerator.
He twists open a bottle of pink juice: Bai Antioxidant Infusion, kula watermelon flavor. This, he announces, is his daily tonic.
He tells a quick story — just because — this one about the time he persuaded Patrick Ewing to sign a trading-card deal with Star Pics.
Kaplan cruises down the Edens Expressway and turns down the radio. Arguably the most prominent voice in Chicago sports broadcasting, he repeats his daily mantra.
"You've got to love the process," Kaplan says. "Love the process. People around me will hear that all the time. Love. The. Process. Every day. To me, it's all about trying to be better tomorrow than I was today. That drives me."
Already, the Kapman is at full tilt.
"It's hokey to some people. But it's the way I do my shows and it's the way I try to live my life. Love the process."
It's 4:26 a.m.
So where in the world is this joyride headed? At the moment, 91 minutes before sunrise, Kaplan is headed for the 200 block of West Chicago Avenue. He will ignite his day at Hardpressed, a River North gym in which trainer Mike McClain will grind the 56-year-old Kaplan through an intense 30-minute strength-training session. Eighteen exercises, little rest between each.
In many ways, it's a microcosm of Kaplan's existence.
From the time Kaplan leaves his Riverwoods home on this mid-August Tuesday until the time he pulls back into his driveway, 19 hours and 27 minutes pass. In that time, Kaplan supplements the workout at Hardpressed with two separate cardio sessions at the East Bank Club.
He eats his breakfast — egg whites (extra well done), avocado and a fruit cup — during a production meeting at ESPN Radio and his dinner — a loaded mixed greens salad from 3 Greens Market — while watching the Cubs-Reds game in the green room at Comcast SportsNet.
Throughout the day he sprinkles in stories of personal encounters with Michael Jordan and Barack Obama, Mike Tyson, Bob Knight and Johnnie Cochran.
He hosts his daily three-hour "Kap and Co." radio show — 9 until noon on WMVP-AM 1000.
"Shot or no shot: John Jay will start more playoff games for the Cubs than Kyle Schwarber?"
In the evening, he drives the conversation as the host of CSN's "SportsTalk Live."
"Do you think (Pro Bowl QB) Trubisky starts Game 1?"
He punctuates the Cubs' 2-1 loss with commentary and analysis on CSN's "Cubs Postgame Live."
And before he leaves the Merchandise Mart for the night, just before 11 p.m., Kaplan takes a minute, sits forward in a black leather recliner and explains how, after such a long day, he's showing few signs of fatigue.
All these roles. All this talking.
"If you get up every single day and you love what you're about to embark on," he says, "the days don't get long. You don't get tired. And you really don't work for a living."
Kaplan is proud to have such a prominent voice in this city's sports conversation. He is certain his thoughts matter.
He is somehow a people person who leaves so many with differing reactions.
Kaplan is widely admired for his unrelenting passion and simultaneously detested for, well, that same over-the-top exuberance. His energy is construed as either highly entertaining or annoyingly bombastic.
If you get up every single day and you love what you're about to embark on, the days don't get long. You don't get tired. And you really don't work for a living. — David Kaplan on work
Is he actually this animated? Always? How did he become this way?
Quote:
Within his hyper-speed existence, Kaplan acknowledges he has been shaped by the forces of fate, family and fandom in ways outsiders don't really know.
*****
Maybe you didn't know Kaplan was dead once. Or at least that's the way he frames it. He was only 31, on an operating table at St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester, Minn., undergoing an experimental procedure to get his heart working properly.
Eleven months earlier, on New Year's Eve 1990, Kaplan broke his right ankle playing pickup basketball only to discover at the hospital that the rapid heart rate and shortness of breath he was experiencing were being caused by a rare form of ventricular tachycardia.
The early attempts to regulate his heart rhythm proved somewhat successful. But, at the urging of his younger brother Bruce, Kaplan sought a more permanent solution.
Bruce, an eye surgeon, happened to be training at the Mayo Clinic at the time.
Through connections, Bruce arranged for his brother to be evaluated and treated. Over a five-day span just before Christmas 1991, Kaplan underwent multiple procedures to re-establish a normal heart rhythm.
And when it came time for Kaplan to roll into the operating room, he didn't feel the same anxiety his parents and brother did.
"I'm not the most religious guy," Kaplan said. "I know who I am and I'm proud of my heritage. But it's not like I go to temple every week. That's just not who I am. But I have always believed that there is a plan. And if the plan is that the car I'm riding in blows up, then that's the way I was supposed to go. That's it. That's the plan."
During his first operation, doctors threaded seven catheters into his heart to perform an ablation in an effort to reboot the electrical system.
During the second procedure, with artificial adrenaline being pumped into his body, Kaplan veered into ventricular fibrillation, a potentially lethal condition that required cardiologist Doug Packer to temporarily stop Kaplan's heart before reviving it with a shock.
That, Kaplan says, is when he passed on, when he saw a glimpse of the other side.
There wasn't, he says, the warm, heavenly light so often described. Instead, he felt breathless.
"I felt like my heart could jump to Cleveland," Kaplan says. "And the next thing I know I am flying through outer space. I'm telling you a million miles per hour would be slow. I was flying through outer space! Just completely out of control!"
Until he wasn't.
Kaplan awoke in the recovery room with his cardiac issues resolved and an unwavering conviction that his existence here was only the start of something bigger.
It's too extreme to say the ordeal changed who he was. From a young age Kaplan had always been energetic and outgoing with an urge to dream big. But undoubtedly, Kaplan says, he became acutely aware of his mortality.
"That completely crystallized it," he says. "That you could be gone. Like that."
*****
A laminated yellow card sits on the corner of Kaplan's desk at ESPN 1000. The title is underlined: "Kap's Daily Play Sheet."
The first line is typed in bold: "Play With Passion and ALWAYS #LOVETHEPROCESS." The last line was added to the bottom in Sharpie: "NEVER CONFORM! Be U!!"
In between are 17 other daily instructions — to build in time for sleep, to stay organized, to "be relentless."
Shocking, right? The Kapman subscribes to a bullet-pointed motivational doctrine.
Not coincidentally, there's also a reminder to read regularly from "The Secret," Rhonda Byrne's 2006 book, which has become Kaplan's credo on the power of positive energy.
On the inside cover, he has inscribed eight rules for himself.
1. Always be positive
2. Recognize + follow your instincts — ALWAYS
3. Follow your gut not your heart
4. Your gut will NEVER lie to you!!
5. Stay positive, don't fall victim to the haters. DON'T ENGAGE!!
6. No negativity — don't allow it
7. Smile
8. Live your life w/ passion — ALWAYS!!!!
Kaplan wants his daily existence to be filled with conversation and stimulation.
He makes extra effort to converse with just about anyone who crosses his path —his locker mates at the East Bank Club; the parking garage attendant on Lake Street; the makeup artist at Comcast. And when he's working, he hopes, his positivity becomes infectious.
"I'm always on," he says. "Always up."
Those close to Kaplan in the business — producers, former co-hosts, regular guests on his show — all highlight the same quality. His passion.
Damn, is Kaplan passionate.
About eating right and staying healthy. About creating enlivened debate. About anything and everything involving Chicago sports.
All. The. Time.
Longtime Chicago radio executive Jimmy de Castro, who was Kaplan's boss as the president of WGN Radio, has always appreciated Kaplan's gusto. That, de Castro believes, was the rocket fuel that launched Kaplan toward the top of his profession. Kap knows sports. He knows people. And he has connections. Everywhere.
Combine Kaplan's depth of knowledge, de Castro says, with his desire to have fun and it's easy to see why he has such extreme confidence in conversation.
"He really enjoys what he does." de Castro says. "That's why he works so many jobs. That's why he has so much energy."
Tom Waddle, whose springboard into sports radio came alongside Kaplan at WGN in the late 1990s, always appreciated Kaplan's tone-setting ambition.
And all this overpowering vivacity? "What you see is what you get with that dude," Waddle says. "Kap loves life. Genuinely. And he's trying to leave his mark every single day."
But if the Kapman's pep isn't an act, perhaps it has been strengthened by other factors.
*****
Kaplan vividly remembers the call from his first wife when the diagnosis became official. Spring of 1997. He was at Sunset Valley Golf Course in Highland Park, coming up the 18th fairway with former Bears tight end James Thornton.
"I can tell you almost to the blade of grass where I was standing," he says. "I'd just hit a good drive. I'm standing at the corner of the dogleg left, thinking about making birdie. Phone rings."
He answered, heard his wife's distress and felt his stomach drop.
Their 3-year-old son had fragile X syndrome. Special needs.
With one hand, Kaplan swatted his ball into the trees to his left, grabbed his golf bag and left the course.
"That's the day," he says, "my life changed dramatically."
Brett Michael Kaplan was born May 11, 1994. And from the time he was an infant, his parents knew something wasn't right. Brett was developmentally challenged from the get-go. Delayed in talking. Delayed walking.
Fragile X, Kaplan would learn, is a chromosomal disorder that causes cognitive impairment and behavioral setbacks.
Nothing prepares a parent for that detour.
On the day of that diagnosis, Kaplan immediately felt himself in a rip current, circling from anxious to confused to depressed. His fears for Brett were pronounced.
Will he be profoundly disabled? Is he going to die young?
Kaplan's self-pity sucker-punched him.
What does this mean for my life? What am I going to do without a normal kid?
Kaplan had always wanted to be a dad. He had dreamed of coaching his son in Little League and seeing where his athletic prowess could take him. Baseball. Soccer. Basketball. Football.
"I was never under a delusion that he was going to be a professional athlete," Kaplan says. "But I wanted to be that dad who was around all the time, playing sports with him, coaching him, enjoying that experience.
"And all of a sudden, that was all just ripped away. Not only from me. But from him."
Still, as Kaplan left the golf course that afternoon and reconnected with his then-wife, he made one vow.
"We can cry for 24 hours," he said. "Then we need to figure out what the hell we're going to do about this."
Ever since, Kaplan has tried his damnedest to wrap his arms around Brett and his brain around the inevitable struggles.
It would have been easy to become paralyzed by Brett's condition. Or even worse, bitter. But that, Kaplan says, would have been a miscalculation, a diversion from the opportunity he has been given to learn from Brett's journey.
"Were there times I felt like I was cheated?" Kaplan asks "Absolutely. No question about it."
I wanted to be that dad who was around all the time, playing sports with him, coaching him ... And all of a sudden, that was all just ripped away. Not only from me. But from him. — David Kaplan on his son, Brett, who is on the autism spectrum
But, according to those closest to him, Kaplan summoned uncommon strength to speed through the grieving process, to develop a constructive approach to his new world.
He rarely spent time asking "Why me?" He encouraged Brett through endless trips to speech therapy and occupational therapy.
To this day, Brett's limitations persist. He frequently repeats himself. He struggles to read.
When his routine gets disrupted, he can quickly unravel.
Brett has an encyclopedic knowledge of Cubs statistics, stretching back years but doesn't do well with basic math.
Still, Kaplan has two words for all those frustrations: So what?
"He has this patience to him," his current wife Mindy says of Kaplan. "And it's an incredibly loving patience."
Adds Kaplan: "God gives kids like him to people who can handle it."
Brett is 23 now and, just like a Kaplan should, he holds two jobs. He sorts mail at Trustmark in Lake Forest and works at Michael's Chicago Style Red Hots in Highland Park.
Kaplan appreciates how naturally positive Brett is. He laughs at how wildly talkative Brett has become and how he roots for the Cubs like nothing else matters. Like father, like son.
Says Kaplan's brother Bruce: "(David) is proud of Brett and holds him up as a shining example that, if you create a loving, nurturing environment, how much a special-needs child can develop. And he has never harbored any sort of jealousy or envy towards those of us who have children who do not have special needs."
On a recent summer evening, Kaplan and Brett took over Lanes 21 and 22 at the Brunswick Zone in Deerfield — bowling buddies, preparing for their fall league with the Square Deal Shoes team.
Brett, himself a sports junkie, discovered a way to scratch his competitive while attending Deerfield High School, joining the Deerfield-Highland Park JV bowling team. He also wanted time to practice with his dad.
Naturally, Kaplan has embraced that connection.
As Brett finishes off a spare on his way to a 146 game, Kaplan extends an encouraging fist bump.
"That one was good, right?" Brett says. "That one was good, right?"
Their league starts again soon, running on Sundays, September through April. Same routine each week. They'll bowl three games. Home to make omelettes. Then NFL games on the couch all afternoon. Together.
*****
Kaplan's style isn't for everyone and never will be. To wide portions of his audience, there aren't enough eye-roll emojis in the world for how cartoonish his antics often seem.
Those gigantic plastic Hulk fists he has used on the air at CSN to celebrate Cubs victories? What a vintage Kap prop, a lame and oversized gimmick that has been beaten into the ground.
His favorite word: "phenomenal"? Does it have to apply to everything — his most recent dinner at Chicago Cut; his assessment of Bears general manager Ryan Pace; his MyPillow?
Was he really just on the air with LaVar Ball arguing over which of them is the better basketball coach. "LaVar!" Kaplan yells. "I would whip your ass. Every single day of the week and twice on Sunday!"
To many, even within Chicago sports media, Kaplan is perceived as a caricature or even worse, a b.s. artist. The fully biased, homeriffic Cubs super fandom long ago became overdone, a detriment to his credibility.
He has been described as self-aggrandizing, as pompous.
De Castro, Kaplan's boss as the president of WGN Raido, has always appreciated Kaplan's verve. But he has heard the complaints and understands why some of that criticism exists.
Says de Castro: "There's a little bit of hot dog in my man Kap."
Through two-plus decades as a radio colleague and close friend, Waddle has been a VIP guest in the David Kaplan amusement park and lands on this succinct conclusion.
"Simply put," Waddle says, "Kap loves him some Kap."
Plaster that five-word assessment on a highway billboard and all of Chicago would drive by nodding. But it's important to understand Waddle's interpretation.
"I mean that in the best way possible," he explains. "Kap genuinely loves his platform. He loves being able to speak to the Chicago sports fans. He loves everything about this niche that he has built for himself."
The one thing that bothers me is when people who have never met me don't believe that I am who I am ... When someone says I'm a jerk or a phony, that really, really bothers me. — David Kaplan on his detractors
Waddle appreciates Kaplan's vast network around the sports world, how he has trust-built relationships that keep him connected and informed. His assertion that "Kap loves him some Kap" is not a knock but an observation of overt pride.
"And he should be proud of what he's accomplished," Waddle says. "To me that's not an offensive characteristic. It's almost endearing."
Kaplan insists that what many outsiders may perceive as showmanship, as artificial glee is really just the excitement encoded in his DNA.
"I'm not for everyone," he says. "I know that. … I know there are plenty of people out there who don't like me and there always will be," he says. "I just want them to know that I put as much effort into what I do as I possibly can. I don't feel like I can work any harder."
Kaplan has clearly given this plenty of though. It has been one way of thickening his skin.
"I don't care if you hate me because of my opinions, if you hate me because I'm a Cubs fan," he says. "None of that bothers me. The one thing that bothers me is when people who have never met me don't believe that I am who I am. That I'm always energetic, that I'm approachable, that I'm an easy guy to talk to. When someone says I'm a jerk or a phony, that really, really bothers me."
*****
There's not enough ink or air time or, for that matter, Internet space to encapsulate the breadth of Kaplan's sports opinions. But at least we can identify the extremes. The two figures who prompt his most excitable reactions? Secretariat and Jay Cutler.
Friends openly mock Kaplan's obsession with the 1973 Triple Crown winner. When he declared on the air recently that he would rather take Secretariat out than spend time with another of his celebrity crushes, "Good Morning America's" Lara Spencer, his colleagues laughed.
Dude! You're fantasizing about a dinner date with a horse!
Kaplan clarifies he didn't want to eat with Secretariat, just that he'd enjoy dining in the stable. As if that is somehow better.
"There's just something about that horse," he says, a twinkle in his eye.
Kaplan was 12 when Secretariat won the Belmont Stakes by a record 31 lengths. Like much of the country, he was captivated by that Triple Crown exclamation point. He appreciated the thoroughbred's strength and grace and competitive spirit. Plus, wait for it …
"I know this is going to sound funny when I say it out loud," he says. "But that horse was known for being great with people. I loved that about him. A lot of horses could be ornery and unsettled around people. Secretariat had a reputation for being great at taking pictures with strangers and always having this friendly demeanor."
To this day, the only piece of sports art Kaplan displays outside his man cave is a Secetariat lithograph that hangs between his kitchen and living room.
"I'm telling you, that was the coolest, kindest, gentlest horse there was."
And Cutler? Well don't get Kaplan started. He was skeptical about the quarterback the day the Bears traded for him. He had been warned by people he trusted that Cutler's prickly personality could weigh an entire organization down.
Eight years later, after Cutler left Chicago with only one playoff victory, Kaplan's aggravation remains as intense as ever.
Cutler, he insists with a vein bulging from his temple, was advertised to be something he wasn't.
But it's way more than Cutler's win-loss record or interception total that has always irked Kaplan. It was his aloof personality.
Take a step back, Kaplan says. Realize that the Chicago Bears just had the same starting quarterback for eight seasons and that starting quarterback had little interest in ever doing endorsements or public appearances.
The quarterback. Of the Chicago Bears.
"Forget the money part of it," Kaplan says. "I just can't believe someone could be given the gift to walk through this great city as the face of that great franchise and not just get off on making people happy. He could literally have owned this town. But he just didn't have any desire to. Man. He and I are about as radically different as people can be."
So, yes. It's easier to understand what Kaplan gravitates toward or away from.
"It's me and the horse at the one end," he says, "and Jay at the other."
*****
Maybe now it's worth mentioning the juice Kaplan has gotten from his second wife, Mindy. Anniversary No. 13 was in June.
Kaplan doesn't talk much about what went wrong in his first marriage. Just that he and his ex-wife were different people with very different philosophies on careers and parenting and the ways to live life. "We were just a bad mix," he says.
For most of that eight-year marriage, he felt unhappy and burdened. He knows he didn't communicate well.
During his time hosting "Sports Central" on WGN in the mid- to late 1990s, Kaplan would get off the air at 9 p.m. and often make one stop on the way home. At the Dominick's on US-41 and Park Avenue in Highland Park.
"Literally every night," he says.
Sometimes Kaplan would buy a snack. Maybe a few groceries. Sometimes he wouldn't buy anything at all. But he'd always walk the aisles.
"Just killing time," he says, "hoping that when I got home my wife was asleep so I could just watch TV and not have to interact."
When eight years pass with that level of disconnect, it's easy to understand why a man would emerge driven beyond imagination to pursue added fulfillment — in his career, in his interests, in his relationships.
He met Mindy in 1998, fittingly in a Wrigley Field skybox, acting as an intermediary to calm an argument between this pretty red-headed stranger and his close friend, Kevin O'Neill.
O'Neill had made his entry that night with panache, letting Mindy know that, yes, he was the head coach of the Northwestern basketball team. "Northwestern has a basketball team?" she cracked.
If that quip lit the rage inside O'Neill, the smoke began pouring out his ears with the follow-up.
"Oh, that's right," Mindy added. "You're the ones who shave points."
A volcano of four-letter words erupted.
Kaplan, arriving late from the pregame show, had to calm the tensions, then introduced himself.
He and Mindy connected and their bond grew over a summer-long bet — on whether the 1998 Cubs would finish above .500. (You can guess which side Kap took.)
Mindy enjoyed the trash talk, the banter, the energy of their interplay. All these years later, that spark remains.
Now the marketing director at Lou Malnati's, Mindy not only admires her husband's drive, she encourages it. She shares his Type-A ambition and believes in what Kaplan is after.
"He wants to have a voice in the Chicago sports landscape," she says. "He wants his voice to matter. And you may not agree with him. But he wants to be the voice that's being heard. And on as big a scale as possible."
Mindy's support and companionship, O'Neill knows, has been a catalyst to Kaplan.
"Kappy's a happy guy," O'Neill says. "I'm happy he found someone like her who can match his energy and enthusiasm and the type of attitude he has. Everyone needs that."
Perhaps best of all for Kaplan, Mindy has three boys from her previous marriage.
When Kaplan fully entered the picture, in 2000, Nick was 9, Alex was 7, Garret was 5.
Kaplan coached Alex's Little League teams. He was a regular at Nick's high school basketball games. During Garret's four years playing guard for the Illinois Wesleyan football team, Kaplan missed only one game — home or away.
"Did that fill a hole for me?" Kaplan says. "One hundred percent."
****
Kaplan is aware of his imperfections and personality quirks. Sure, he concedes, it's odd he feels compelled to get his car washed every day.
And yes, he's so obsessively devoted to eating healthy that he packs himself a freezer bag of grilled chicken every Christmas Eve to take to his sister-in-law's for his own dinner.
He believes he's a tremendous multitasker. But his wife and colleagues think he may have attention deficit disorder. How else do you explain the times — yes, plural — that Kaplan has become distracted by his phone and left the house with the refrigerator door open?
At the studio, Kaplan will be engaged in conversation. Then an attention-grabbing tweet comes across.
"It's like a ball rolling across the floor in front of a puppy," ESPN 1000 producer Danny Zederman says. "Well, there goes Kap."
Kaplan also has an intolerance for those with ordinary work ethics. If they're not going to "love the process" then what's the point? And when he makes grand demands of his producers, he can't stand when they're easily deterred by rejection. "Don't tell me how rocky the water is!" Kaplan will command. "Just dock the freaking boat!"
Just about everything Kaplan has done in his life has come with a push to make his parents proud.
Kaplan's 84-year-old mother, Lila, still tells the story of 45 or 50 years ago when she took David and Bruce downtown on the train. They stepped out into the city, into a sea of navy blue suits and khaki trench coats and wing-tipped shoes. There was an energy to the whole scene. There was activity and hustle and order. But to Kaplan, observing that kind of routine, that rhythm, that redundancy felt like a glimpse into hell. He turned to his mom. "I don't ever want to be one of them," he declared.
Now Kaplan thinks back to his graduation from Hamline University with a degree in English. He thinks back to his law school application to Lewis University and the suit-and-tie, 9-to-5 future that seemed to be ahead. He's beyond grateful he veered to follow his gut, to make sports the hub of his world.
Kaplan didn't care about salaries and wasn't intimidated by paths less traveled. He just kept exploring, making connections, adding life experiences to his resume.
Assistant basketball coach at Northern Illinois. NBA scout with the Pacers and SuperSonics.
He a ran a high school basketball scouting service — "The Windy City Roundball Review" — then took his analysis to the airwaves and eventually barged into sports broadcasting, his biggest break coming when he landed the "Sports Central" job at WGN in 1995.
Waddle, his co-host there for 10 years, immediately admired the standard Kaplan set.
Says Waddle: "Based on the example his parents set, for Kap it's always 'If I'm going to commit myself to something, I'm going to be all in.' That's just his approach. He doesn't know how to do things halfway. It's pride. He's a hustler. He sees what his hard work has created. And I think that's probably the greatest stimulant in the world."
*****
On Nov. 7 of last year, at dawn, Kaplan drove to Arlington Heights to talk to his dad, Marshall. This was five mornings after Kaplan had watched the Cubs win the World Series — on a three-second delay on the CSN set outside Progressive Field in Cleveland.
The emotional high he was on was matched in intensity only by the heartbreak he'd felt 16 years, seven months and six days earlier, when at 68, Marshall died of a heart attack.
Like he always does on trips to the Shalom Memorial Park, Kaplan bought his dad a regular coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, carried it into the cemetery and set it beside the headstone.
Then he began talking, out loud, stream of consciousness for 15 minutes. About the Cubs season, about the World Series, about that epic Game 7.
"And I know he's dead. I know he's not there," Kaplan says. "But more than ever, it felt like I was talking to him."
Marshall was his son's everything, the attorney with an indefatigable work ethic, inherent kindness and a love of sports that was impossible to top.
He introduced his sons to DePaul basketball — season tickets to Alumni Hall. He turned the dinner table into a nightly roundtable on the Chicago sports scene.
Most of all, Marshall loved baseball. And he always encouraged his sons to cheer for both Chicago ballclubs. (That's one piece of advice David didn't heed.)
On that morning in the cemetery, Kaplan finally exhaled and tried to tell his dad everything about the final night of the 2016 season. About the stakes and the stress and the Dexter Fowler leadoff home run. About the early lead and the swelling anticipation.
Yes, even about freaking Rajai Davis and that hole he felt in his stomach when Davis' line drive into the left-field seats obliterated the last of what had once been a four-run Cubs lead.
As Davis circled the bases, Kaplan had taken the small golden gavel charm he keeps on a necklace — the one his mother had given his dad when they got engaged — and squeezed it.
"Just like 'C'mon, Dad. It can't be this cruel,'" Kaplan says. "It can't be. Not again."
For years, CSN analyst Todd Hollandsworth had busted Kaplan's chops about his excessive Cubs allegiance. Hollandsworth played 12 seasons in the majors, including two with the Cubs, and still found it beyond ridiculous how fired up Kaplan got after wins and how frazzled he'd be after losses.
Yet as he sat at Kaplan's side for the entirety of Game 7, it all finally made sense.
Hollandsworth saw the way Kaplan was suffocated by his anxiety and his hope and the eighth-inning despair. "Kap isn't a guy who carries stress around for too long. He just doesn't have time for it," Hollandsworth says. "So to see that in him so intensely that night … It was hard for me to witness the pain he was experiencing. And how hard he was trying to squelch it and put it away and get it off of him."
Hollandsworth heard Kaplan talking out loud to his dad.
C'mon, Dad. It can't be this cruel.
"You realize how generational it is," Hollandsworth says.
And at long last, it wasn't that cruel.
When the Cubs' extra-inning rally and triumph was complete, Kaplan pointed skyward, then heard the voice in his ear tell him his postgame show was about to start. Kaplan knew instantly his next cemetery visit would be overwhelming.
When that opportunity came, Kaplan's thoughts flowed faster than the words. The realizations cascaded over him.
Kaplan thought about all the time he'd invested into this particular Cubs team, how he had become tight with first baseman Anthony Rizzo; how he was writing a book about the grand championship blueprint of Theo Epstein; how he admired the grace of Kris Bryant and the flair of Javy Baez.
And then he understood this deep attachment he felt to the 2016 Cubs had so little to do with those figures. "It could have been 40 other guys," he says. "Any 40 guys."
He reflected on his first trip inside Wrigley Field, at his dad's hip as he came up the stairs left of home plate, intoxicated by the view.
Kaplan thought of himself as a boy playing "Strikeout" against the brick wall at Middleton School in Skokie. He'd pitch as Fergie Jenkins and bat as Billy Williams and idolize everything about Ron Santo.
This was about 50 years of investment, of suffering, of loyalty, of shared experiences with so many other Cubs fans, including the ones he loved most.
He thought about his life's most memorable moments and how his dad had been a part of almost all of them. Now the Cubs had won the World Series.
"He's been gone 17 years," Kaplan says. "I just so wish he could have been there for that."
As he sat with his dad, delivering a new World Series champions hat and gluing a 2016 World Series champions pin to the headstone, Kaplan felt an aura. He took a 360-degree look around. In every direction, there were "W" flags. Bouquets of blue-and-red flowers.
"Just like, 'Oh, my God. There are other people here doing what I'm doing,'" he says.
Kaplan told his dad about the honor he had in doing the very first postgame show with the Cubs as World Series champions. In that moment he felt it all — the heartbreak that had been forever cured and the heartbreak that never will be.
This was it. The power of sports in its purest form. Kaplan's boyhood dreams and career aspirations had intersected. As always, he had to talk about it.
"I needed him to know that we won," Kaplan says, through tears. "And that I know he would have been proud of how I handled that show. He would have loved it. That was it.
"He would have watched every second."
dwiederer@chicagotribune.comTwitter @danwiederer
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