Meditations on Chicago Baseball - Part II

Well, it only took me two months in getting around to doing this stupid fucking post. Here it is; Lucky you.
Cubs
I grew up a Cubbies fan. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of getting to cut school to go out to Wrigley with the parents for afternoon games in the crisp Chicago springtime. I remember the legendary (read: infamous) '84 run, and the crushing disappointment of defeat (to the fucking Padres, nonetheless). And I'll always remember my grandfather's words to me on that night: "Sometimes baseball is a lot like life; unfair... Fucking Cubs."
Amen.

As time went on, I lost faith. I became a cubgnostic. I focused all of my attention on bands, beer, and boobies rather than batters, base-running, and box scores.
I remember fucking HATING the Cubs. I'm pretty sure that it came from trying to find parking for a show at the Metro an the same day as a game (this happened often). Priorities had shifted, and I was firmly on the other side of the fence. I'd get into fights with the legions of drunk frat boys stumbling out of the Wrigleyville bars, I'd push through the herds of Cubs fans clogging the Clark street sidewalks, and I'd piss all over the outside of Wrigley Field any chance I got.

As time passed (and teen-angst subsided) I somehow found my way back into the ivy. I started getting back into the Bears when I was in my late teens, but I kept holding a grudge against the Cubs for much longer. It wasn't until I moved away from Chicago that I began to appreciate the team once again. Maybe it was hometown pride, but I really think it's more.
Honestly, I'm not quite sure how it happened. I just remember going with a friend to Wrigley (I'm not sure why) one crisp spring afternoon in 2000 while I was back visiting, and feeling a wave of tranquility pass over me. I was home, and all was forgiven. Wrigley baseball was just too perfect to hate. It didn't even bother me when the Chubbies lost, because that's what they do.

I begun to appreciate Wrigley even more after attending games out here on the East Coast. The stadiums seemed garish and full of unwanted distractions. It seemed like they were trying to sell the idea of baseball rather than the game itself. It was meretricious crap for ADD kids, nothing more. Say what you will about the Cubs, but if you go to Wrigley you'll see baseball in it's purest form. At Wrigley, the game you'll see is pretty-fucking-close to what you would have seen back in 1916, and that's saying something.

Crackpot theory* time:
I've begun to think of being a Cubs fan much like being a modern Catholic. Amongst all of the failures, embarrassment, and a complete lack of evidence on our behalf; we keep the faith. The circle (C), which should be a badge of shame, is worn with pride. It's the scarlet A of baseball (and no, not the Angels logo, you ass). Fuck, the Cubs finished dead-fucking-last in the National League, but lately I've seen more Cubs gear being worn around Washington DC than Tigers, Cardinals, and White Sox items combined. I don't understand it, but I can't help but love it. It's just good to know that there are other totally shameless retards out there.
I still believe. That unquestioning belief has caused many bad days, and got me a busted TV screen during the 2003 NCLS series, but I do believe.

Okay, there are several things that royally piss me off about the team. I really hate how the Cubs have become the new "Red Sox" for every single baseball masochist still out there. All this cheesy hokum surrounding around the team would even make Peter Angelos blush. I watched that recent HBO special on the Cubs and barely escaped without going into diabetic shock.
Granted, most of the fans are unsufferable drunken douches, but that's no different from any other sports team. Cubs fans just have a (much) shorter walk from the bar to the ballpark.
The biggest complaint I have is the Cubbies' penchant for throwing good money after bad. After 98 years of drought, you'd think they'd learn a lesson. I was convinced that Joe Girardi would be the perfect guy to come in and trim the fat. Tabula rasa - salt the earth - burn it down and rebuild. Instead, we got Louie P and rumors of A-Rod. We're fucked.
At this rate, it looks like "next year" wont come until the Fall of '58. I'll be eighty-three years old, and up in the stands when it happens. Mark** my words.
...

*as opposed to "crackpipe theory" time, which is a registered trademark of the Chicago White Sox Fan Club
** not Prior

Meditations on Chicago Baseball - Part I

White Sox
I need to lead off (hey, I'm using the jargon) with a note on how gracious and even-handed EdP was when I took him to Wrigley. He wrote a very nice post and was an all-around gentleman about the experience. I have to make it clear to everyone that Ed is a much better person than I, and as much as I appreciate his gratitude, if I were to only say nice things the post would end here.
Elise demanded that The Girl and I come out to see a Sox game while we were back in Illinois, so on August the 25th we headed out to the lost civilization known to locals as "Chicago's South-Side".
It was Friday, and as a preventative measure to miss "crush-hour" weekend traffic into the city, we left at 1PM. It didn't work. We were caught firmly in the grasp of the Hillside strangler - 290E was a fucking parking lot. We had been standing motionless in one spot for about 15 minutes before I realized that the mook on the billboard trying to sell me Brazilian meat was Ozzie G. We were stuck there in that one spot for 35 fucking minutes with the OG smiling down at us with his meat-sword firmly in hand.
We finally got through all of the 290 traffic, just in time to hit the LSD traffic going south. Fuck. It took us over 2 hours to get down to UofC (1 Hour & 15 minutes longer than it took for us to get to Wrigley the week before).
We had a couple of drinks with Elise and headed out to the park through the fabled "South-Side". For those of you not in the know, Chicago's south-side has all of the charm and grace of Mogadishu with the scenery of Eraserhead. Although, I did learn that all you need to turn a vacant lot into a tavern/open-air drug market is (apparently) 2 abandoned couches and a card-table. Go figure.
We found parking off Halstead and were promptly accosted by a local who was pissed-off that we were parking on his street. We placated him with a (local) pilfered parking pass and a tip of the Sox cap. He promised that he'd look after our car, shouted something about keeping Cubs fans out of the "hood", gave us a thumbs-up, and returned to the sofa on his front porch. He reminded me of an old confederate - the South-Side WILL rise again.
Anyway, we headed out toward the Cell meandering past a series of storefronts featuring plastic furniture, animal-print women's wear, ceramic animals, and FOR RENT signs. We continued on past several blocks of empty buildings, through dank concrete tunnels, around a bunch of overly-enthusiastic guys hocking self-screened t-shirts, and emerged at our destination: U.S. Cellular Field (USCF from here on out).

What can I say about The Cell? Well, it's a lot like paying $40 to go to a time-share presentation. That, or being stuck in a commercial loop. Man, do those fuckers love to sell shit. The ambiance of USCF is what I'm sure soviet propagandists imagined the US (as a whole) to be - One loud, blinding, garish assault of consumerism. At every available opportunity there was either a commercial, or some crappy song blaring through the PA system. Corporate logos illuminated the stands from the jumbotrons, and slogans circled the park in an unending loop of "go buy this". In the short time I was there I learned what car to drive, which bank to keep my money in, were I should get gas from, what company to get my long-distance from, which "exclusive issue" jersey I should be wearing, who's wieners were the plumpest, etc., etc., etc. Hell, I even got an insurance pamphlet from a what can only be described as an "ad-stripper", and got questioned by a survey poll-taker (a different kind of "pole-taker" than the stripper) while I was having a cigarette (at least a got a fake dollar outta that, which I promptly stuck in the fake-stripper's shorts).
The one thing that I knew that they were way off-base on (hey, using the jargon again) with their ad-blitz was that I should "Choose Miller", but choosing otherwise was a mother-fucking adventure.
Elise and The Girl were happy with their margaritas (margaritas at a fucking baseball game?!?), but I wanted a beer, dammit. I wandered off trying to find ANYTHING other than MGD or Lite. I must've walked 1/4 of the way around the stadium before I found a single tap of Sam Adams (meh.) - I kept walking. I found the line before I found the stand - a city block long for anything other than Miller or Sam. Fuck me. I learned (during my epic wait) that due to an exclusivity contract, there were only 2 stands at each end of the park that sold any variety of beers. I emerged from the half-hour line with 2 Old Styles, and finished the first one before I got back to my seat. The other one was gone shortly thereafter. Later, I ordered a MGD through clenched teeth - That one got warm before I finished it. That was the only sporting event I've ever paid for that I've left dead-sober. I guess that it all worked out for the best because the one attempt at using the Men's room resulted in a long-ass line, no troughs, and two pollacks getting into a fist fight three urinals over. Classy.

I almost forgot; Between all of the ads, the lines and the cigarette breaks, I'm pretty sure there was a baseball game, but I'm not 100% on that. If memory serves, the Sox lost to some team that was supposed to be contracted back in '01 - I think they were from Minnesota, maybe. Well, that's not important because right after the game came a HUGE fireworks display to the sounds of AC/DC, Guns & Roses, Europe, and any other butt-rock 80's band you can imagine. It was truly impressive and went on forever. By the end of that bombastic barrage, I had forgotten about everything earlier that night, and could only comprehend the prettiness of fireworks. I was so dumb-struck that I totally forgot to pick-up that $45 "limited edition" tie-dyed Sox cap outta the gift shop. Before I knew it we were out of the Cell and into the wall of panhandlers.

We had Shootin-Fest 'o6 the next day out in Plano, so we went straight home afterward, and had our responsibility rewarded with a shit-load of "lush-hour" traffic heading out of the city at the midnight. Just can't win.
While standing stationary on 290, I caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of the other side of a billboard - it was Ozzie G holding his meat and smirking at us as we crawled, defeated, toward home.
How appropriate.
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Post-script: I really did enjoy going out with Miss Elise* to the game, and it was something I really wanted to do once in my life (ONCE).
I'm not trying to be mean-spirited (okay, just a little), and the SS Sox will continue be my horse in the American League.
From now on, I'll just make sure to watch 'em at home where I can mute the commercials, and drink whatever beer I want (unfortunately, there still will be fights in the bathroom).

*who totally freaked out at the' Neverending Story' thing, God knows what she'll do when she reads this