We’re past the blind optimism and into the nightly measuring stick. Not panic, not confidence either. Just watching closely. This team still feels capable and unfinished at the same time, which somehow tracks perfectly.

The lineup is sorting itself out in real time. When Hoerner is getting on base and forcing pitchers to work, everything feels calmer. When that spark isn’t there, the pressure shifts fast to Swanson to do too much instead of letting innings breathe. Happ is still the mood swing. One night he’s grinding, lining balls into the gaps, making the lineup feel deep. The next, it’s quick outs and long stretches of quiet. We’ve learned to brace for which version shows up by the second at-bat.

Suzuki’s at-bats matter more than the box score shows. When he’s staying balanced and driving the ball the other way, rallies feel possible. When he starts chasing spin, you can feel innings slip away. Busch is still a watch too. Power is real, but every series feels like a test of whether pitchers have adjusted or he has.

On the mound, it still starts with Steele. When he’s commanding the fastball early, the night feels under control. When the pitch count climbs in the third, everyone in the park starts doing bullpen math without saying it out loud. The back end remains a nightly question. Who actually owns the ninth. Who earns trust instead of borrowing it. Every one-run game feels like a referendum.

And then there’s Wrigley. The wind decides things before the first pitch half the time. We all check the flags like a habit because it changes how we watch every at-bat. So we keep showing up. Cold nights, afternoon games, random opponents that suddenly matter by the seventh. Because this is the part where roles harden and you can feel a team telling you what it actually is if you’re there long enough to notice.