The Friendly Confines: Right at home with a straw hat and a cigar.
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August 11: Sorry to spoil how this evening would end, but a familar ending by now to the Cubby fan: on this evening at Waveland and Addison, the Cubs lost in predictable, nail-biting fashion to the World Champions, getting an early lead, giving the faithful so much hope before giving it up through poor pitching, only to come back to tie it late, and then losing in the twelveth inning when their beleagured closer gave up a solo home run.
We'd last been to Wrigley in 2003, before I. was born. It was a great afternoon. The Cubs beat the hated rival Cardinals late in the game, Sammy Sosa flexed his massive arms, sang "take Me Out" with Mike Ditka and saw a rip-roaring fight involving about a dozen men, women, and large Samoans right below us. The Cubbies hadn't won a World Series in 95 years, and our upper-level tickets were only $15.
Tickets aren't so cheap any more, and the Cubs have extended their World Series drought to 100 years now, but that same "Wait til Next Year" refrain is still heard each spring. Hey, you never know? But Wrigley is always a good experience, so I endured six hours of refreshing the computer screen every few minutes back in March to snag tickets to this Tuesday night game against the World Champion Phillies.
The 2009 season had started with so much promise, but by early August it was clear the prognosticators who'd sipped a bit of the Cub Kool-aide and prediced that this would be "the year" for the Cubs had once more bought into the hype. By early August, the Cubs were firmly in second place in the NL Central, dropping like a rock as the red-hot St. Louis Cardinals left them in the dust. Another year, just like the last 100.
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Best way to the game: The CTA Red Line breezes into Roosevelt Road. . .
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E. anxiously awaits a glimpse of Wrigley as we approach Addison Ave. . .
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Cubs-themed artwork inside the Addison station. . .
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We caught the CTA into the city, parking our car at Midway airport to catch the Orange Line--rather than taking Metra in from Naperville, I thought should the game go long the park-and-ride option would ensure us the best chance of getting back home before dawn. At Roosevelt Road, where we hopped onto an increasingly crowded Red Line train up to Addison Avenue. Our car was packed with blue jersery-wearing Cubs fans. When our train stopped, we spewed onto the platform, a sea of faithful jamming the stairways and the sidewalks heading to the ballpark like salmon returning to spawn. Cubs fandom is a genetic thing, I am convinced. The streets were packed with fans, with ticket scalpers selling seats infront of indifferent Chicago cops, with homeless men hoping to beg a little change from the pockets of the well-heeled crowd.
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No shortage of guys scalping tickets--they way it used to be before StubHub took over the racket. . .
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Photo montage of Wrigley at Dusk. Click on photo to enlarge. . .
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We arrived too late to snag our free Ryne Sandberg bobblehead dolls, but early enough to use the famed Wrigley restrooms before they became a stinking, soaking, fetid swamp. Our seats weren't great--lower level, but we were way up under the upper balcony, which cut off our view of flyballs and nearly obscured the landmark manual scoreboard in center field. My view of homeplate was partially blocked by a support column. It was like watching side-by-side 60-inch flat screen TVs. The game had been a sellout, and there wasn't much room to maneuver.
Sellouts are a ritual at Wrigley, the second-oldest ballpark in the majors, built in 1913 for the Chicago Whales of the Federal League and originally named Wheegman Park. It became home for the Cubs in 1916; chewing-gum magnate and team owner Bill Wrigley renamed the stadium in 1926, adding a second deck to the seating the next year. Baseball promoter Bill Veek (yes, the same one who later owned the Browns and White Sox) planted ivy along the outfield walls in 1937. Baseball traditionalists love the place: It retains its huge hand-operated centerfield scoreboard, was the last field in the major leagues to recieve lights for evening play in 1988, and until recently resisted the onslaught of sponsorship and advertising on every concievable flat surface. There is no mascot, no exploding scoreboard, no jumbotron. There's no kids play area, no squadron of young cuties in hotpants launching t-shirts into the crowd, and no prerecorded "walk-up music" to herald the arrival of the next hitter when the home team is at bat--only organ music. It's cramped, it's crowded, it's inconvienent to get to and but a single concourse is provided for restrooms and food. But it's Wrigley, and this is how they like it--how baseball used to be.
Sitting at Wrigley, you almost feel like you should be wearing a straw hat and smoking a cigar. Here's a wonderful piece from 1980 by Sports Illustrated writer E. M. Swift.
Walking down the concourse, E. said to me, "I know there's no playground here for kids, but this is what a ballpark is supposed to be." I couldn't argue his point. Wrigley wouldn't be so bad, I decided, if it wasn't for all those insufferable Cubs fans! Are they this bad at Fenway? Probably so. Finally winning a World Series only made things worse.
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The crowded concourse. . .
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Heritage bricks outside the main entrance. Full of hope--This is the Year!--and hesitant optimism--Hopefully in your lifetime!
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Drunken womanizer Harry Carey is immortalized out front. No beer in his hand, however.
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Our view--one that hasn't changed since the late 1920s.
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The Cubs jumped off to a 2-0 lead in the bottom of the third on a double, a couple of walks, a single and a sacrifice fly. Cubs starter Rich Hardin was perfect into the top of the sixth inning. E. and I went to get drinks, and while standing in line for concessions, the fan in front of us exclaimed, "Hey, Hardin has been PERFECT so far!" That was the jinx. Next batter walked. Goodbye perfect game. Then Jimmy Rollins jacked one to tie the game. Goodbye shutout, and as it turned out, goodbye decision for Hardin, who lasted through the seventh.
Eight inning: always-shaky set-up man Carlos Marmol comes in. Word is, if he can get an out under his belt, he'll be fine. He starts walking batters, and he'll fall apart. Guess which one we saw? Walk. Fly out. Fly out. Hit batter. Walk. Walk, and the go-ahead run comes in. After eight, 3-2, Phillies.
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Fourth inning: Ryan Therioit reaches first base safely on a high throw to Phillies infielder Chase Utley. . .
The Philly equivalent for shakiness in relief is one-time lights-out closer Brad Lidge. Brad's been a bit unreliable lately, so when he came in to finish off the Cubbies, a bit of hope existed for the 41,000 at the Friendly Confines. Here we go: Fukidome, walked. Theroit sacrificed Fukidome to second. Bradley singles Fukidome home to tie the game. E. was beside himself with excitement: the Cubbies rally back to tie it.
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E. goes wild as Bradley hits in the tying run in the 9th inning. . .
Closer Randy Gregg took the mound in the 11th, retiring three on line shots. Cubs unable to get anything going offensively. Top of the 12th: Little used Ben Francisco comes off the bench and homers on a 1-1 count. And that's where it ended. Cubs lost 4-3, despite their 10 hits to the Phillies' 3. The Cubs had dropped five of the last six and that big white "W" flag wasn't flying over the field much lately. The fans jammed their way back onto the El without singing that annoying "Go Cubs, Go!" song.
Things didn't get better the next two nights, the Phillies sweeping the series and putting the Cubs in the five-game losing streak.
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I. was oblivious to much of the game, content reading comic books. . .
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I'd never seen a smile on E.'s face as big as the one he had all night at Wrigley. . .
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Before we got chased out of the park by security guards, we posed for a family photo (taken by, strangely enough, a family from Texas. . . )
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Lots of love, sometimes dysfunctionally so. . .
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