The Cubs and the City
Photoscribbles
We went to Wrigley on the 4th of July and unlocked a memory -
July 3, 2023 -
In Chicagoland, we cheer for either the White Sox or the Cubs. My mind was made up on these matters at 12 years old when my friend’s mom drove us into the city, to Wrigley Field, for my first major league baseball game.
She drove us downtown with the oldies playing, our lips singing, and our feet hanging out the open car windows to the friendly confines where we immediately received a free Gatorade lunchbox promotion for kids only—Gatorade logo on one side, Cubs on the other. My friend sold hers to the guy sitting behind us who said his name was Cliff Drop By Sometime. He kept us regaled and engaged in conversation, sarcasms, spilled beer, howling laughter and good times through the whole game. You know the community that forms at baseball games among strangers. It was my first taste. I felt it. I loved it. I was happy, wild, charming and free. I treasured my lunchbox and I had the time of my life.
It was a special occasion. There was a Hollywood film crew onsite and they were filming scenes for the movie Rookie of the Year. We all joined in the director’s cue to cheer “Henry, Henry, Henry” as the actor Thomas Ian Nicholas took the mound. We did multiple takes, getting louder and more committed in love with these brave players who hadn’t won a World Series since 1908 each time.
I told people for years that I Go Cubs Go because my first baseball game was such a trip. I used the fun fact that I’m in the movie Rookie of the Year as fodder for tell-us-a-fun-fact ice breakers and I cheered “Henry, Henry, Henry” in my head whenever a pitcher took the mound at major and minor league games ever since.
On Sunday, we had extended family plans to meet up for Cubs vs. Cleveland, 1:20 PM game.
It was gorgeous idyllic weather for weeks and then a wildfire haze from Canada coated us all in throat irritation and the rains came after too long a dry spell. The city descended into a nighttime-like day time, a dark hazy and drenching day. Hard rain never ceasing. The game was postponed until 4:05 PM.
We were downtown already, staying overnight and spending a freewheeling fine day prior enjoying summer in the city and taking street photography.
Putting our legs into Lake Michigan. Dining fancy and cuddling close in boutique hotel elevators. We were relaxed into each other until Sunday game day hit. Disaster morning. Everything drenched and seemingly doomed for baseball.
We left the hotel at the last checkout time minute we could and drove to Wrigleyville. We parked the car three hours early, walking in hard downpour with raincoats over our faces and our bare legs leaping puddles of litter, and I was ready to fold.
I desperately wanted to give up and go home. Screw the ticket money. Screw the family. Let them suffer this uncertain rain day game day. The kids morose and the precious weekend fleeting. In my head I was chanting— take me home, cancel the game, let’s go home. The radar looks bad well past 4:05 PM, this game is not getting played.
But what if I’m wrong? What if the game does get played and we’re right here? If we go home we’ve wasted a pretty penny and drenched ourselves in regrets and rain water. The family is waiting. What should we do? Persist. Pray. God, please save me from this shit. The stupidest kind of prayer I’m ashamed to be praying.
We ducked into the Butcher’s Tap and had fried appetizers and four rounds of beer, taking shelter until 2:45 PM when assured of entrance to the park. We trudged to Wrigley Field, cascades of rain and rain and rain, cursing the chaotic energy of extended family plans and marveling head shaking at the total departure terrible ordeal weather that appeared on the rare day we were doing the Cubs thing with the kids and grandparents. What a disaster. Plans, stupid plans.
We passed through the entrance gates, through the thick sea of wet people, up the ramps, under the dripping stands to high seats under the overhang, cold wind, shivering Sheridan, and joined the family in hollow greeting.
Laughter then. More beers. An announcement that the game is postponed to 6:00 PM. Sigh of impatience. Erik offered, “That’s a good thing. At least they’re going to play and we’re here.” Are these good things?
I could be on my couch reading The Subterraneans right now recovering my nerve endings for the work week. Early to bed, early to rise. Instead I’m a six pack into a long cold wet Sunday night with tired kids, an Imodium in my system for the poor nutrition and tremors of living hard. Burping anticipated hot dogs and gas pain. Moaning silently, I waited, losing words fast, introvert cloud cover closing in.
The dark day became clear night. The uncertain tarp was removed from the field and we cheered. I gulped and accepted the long evening ahead. Stressed out, strained out, with a brave face for family fun. Gritted grinning glowering teeth, surrendered in my seat.
The game time opening displays began, organ pumping. I went to the bathroom, holding intestines steady, and returned with ducked head, back to our family, ascending, persevering, glancing up, and what’s there on the screen in the middle of the field?
The 30th Anniversary of Rookie of the Year. Thomas Ian Nicholas throwing out the first pitch.
I stood there on the stone steps with my mouth open and God descending on my shoulders.
What? Really? My first Cubs game and all this suffering today and it’s this—the 30th anniversary of my 12 year old cheering self in the stands?
I really am done dismissing these coincidences as happenstance. We live in a responsive universe. God is making things work for us all the time. Every time. I am meant to be every wet and dry place I’m in, open faith and humorous plans. Plans. What plans? I’m simply never in control. As the stands cease dripping, I’ll stand here singing a praise of whistled thank you to the wrung out heavens and open declaratory revelation to my companions.
“This is crazy. I was at the game when this movie was filmed 30 years ago. It was the best baseball day of my life.” Even better than when the Cubs did win the World Series and Erik collapsed on his knees in the family room as my late-night eye closed in worship then too.
Oh God, you are one hilarious orchestrator to have and to hold in life. Play ball, you collider of chants, cheers and choked wonder. Play ball, you circled round redeemer of reflection. Play ball, you sky opening stars gleaming giver of patience. Play ball, you holy hot pitcher of light. Oh God, I give my every day to you because you make it ever so remarkable.
