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Cubs vs. Phillies at Wrigley, Book Excerpt
Cubs vs. Phillies at Wrigley, Book Excerpt
My sense of reality has been dulled by countless hours behind the wheel. In my mind the dashboard becomes a piano keyboard. I play air guitar on the seat belt. Finger cymbals are toys without equal. The brake pedal provides backbeat and the radio dial broadcasts rap-like distortion. Saxophone by Camel. Carbonated beverage microphone. The guest (ghost) soloist sits in the passenger seat. I was playing in the band. I was cool. I was sleepy and going ninety in a fifty-five mile-an-hour zone. Down my foot clamped on the drum and the wheels did some distorting of their own. Freedom may be just another word for nothing left to lose. That is until you find that what you are losing is control as your motorized coffin careens off the highway and threatens to plunge into the ditch that swallowed Maine. Today the 4th-place Philadelphia Phillies face the Chicago Cubs in an afternoon contest. From Milwaukee, I head back to Chicago and - much slower now - east on Addison Street. The cheapest parking to turn up is behind a Clark Street fast food restaurant. Twelve dollars. I see twenty dollars is a common tithe as well. To defray today's ticket, parking and concessions costs I pull out my real guitar and head for Waveland Avenue. Propped James Dean-style against the outfield gate I play tuneless renditions of "This Land is Your Land" and "Eleanor Rigby". A rebel without a clue. Passersby can see that I am reading the music from a book (a going away present from a well-meaning friend) but drop quarters and dimes anyway. By the time the $10 bleachers open I am sixteen dollars and a CTA token richer. The guard lets me drag my guitar behind me. Wrigley Field: park number six of many. An overcast 65 degrees quickly turns to a rain delay while I clutch a tasty hot chocolate. The guy next to me in left field's last row is Joe-the-diehard-Bears-fan. He has a football cap on and sports a goodly amount of stubble and venom, yet visually takes me through the stadium: the hand-operated green scoreboard in centerfield, the timeless lack of a replay screen, Harry Caray's booth directly across from us (I tune into WGN radio and at that very moment he is describing blue skies and the imminent removal of the tarp from the infield; I am convinced that Harry is drunk), the ivy-covered walls and the immaculate grass field. He boasts that he attends most home games every season but we never broach the topic of his occupation such that he is able to be a permanent bleacher bum. Cubs leftfielder Luis Gonzalez trots out for a catch with the ballgirl and throws us a ball. I catch it and hand it to a begging 5-year-old boy. The game features two starters with 6-plus earned run averages. The Cubs' Jim Bullinger is a ground ball pitcher. Mike Williams tends to serve up long-balls to Phils' opponents. After trading two-run first innings, the pitchers settle down until the fourth inning. The bleachers occasionally disintegrate into a beer commercial: our side shouts "Right Field SUCKS!" and right field responds in kind. We all sing Happy Birthday to Cubs' catcher Scott Servais. A quintet of old-timers regale us with a banjo, oboe, tuba and two trumpets as I sip an Old Style beer. The Cubs were once called the Colts. They were also given the Cowboys appellation. Rainmakers, Orphans, Rough Riders, Recruits, Panamas, Zephyrs, Spuds, Trojans, and Remnants surnames were their's for the asking. This must be a reason why Cubs fans are the best hecklers in the country. Phillies' plus-size outfielder Pete Incaviglia is the butt of most jokes. My favorite breaks up left-field for at least a half-inning: "All it takes is a shake for breakfast, another for lunch and a sensible dinner." There is also "You throw like a girl", "Why is the G silent?", "I have a hot dog for you", "Japan" (a reference to his awful .181 season there in 1995), "Inky the stinky", "Inky the twinkie", and "You and Terry Pendleton". Incaviglia responds by depositing a 2-0 count three-run homer into the right field bleachers in the fourth inning to give the visitors an 8-2 lead. Rain starts falling and a few boys in front of me pull out a "Wet Guys, No problem" sign to get their faces on WGN. The rain delay lasts fifty minutes while I chat with a fellow Pennsylvanian, the group in front of me heads for Murphy's and three kids with "C", "U" and "B" painted Day-Glo red on their chests steal ivy from the outfield wall and place it behind their ears. A few innings after the tarp is cleared and fans cheered its removal, Harry Caray led the assembled multitude of 15,431 through his unique rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". Joe Bearsfan steps over the line in the seventh and calls the leftfielder a "pedophile". Mr. Incaviglia briefly turns around presumably to pick out whom to deck. In actuality, ten minutes later, with second baseman Mickey Morandini on second base and first baseman Gregg Jefferies (who went 4-for-5 on the day) on first, Incaviglia parks another three-run dinger on a 1-1 count. This time it is over our heads, where it strikes a bus on Waveland Avenue and rolls down Kenmore Avenue with about twenty grown men and women chasing after it. After much deliberation the successful fan throws the ball back on the field (not the real ball, however, simply an imposter from his pocket), a Wrigley tradition. A run in the ninth to seal the coffin shut and the Phillies are proud owners of a 12-3 win. A Cubby Bear Bar beer completes the evening.
