Every year at this time, I have a conference in Chicago. Despite all its benefits, both culinary and cultural, Chicago has a stench. I've always suspected it's the corpses that somehow manage to vote there. Anyway, one of the expectations of my profession is that I be an "active scholar." I do that by presenting a paper at the MPSA every year. Like last year, we took a) the Amtrak and b) the American taxpayer for a subsidy of about $50 per ticket. Thanks, America.
The guy in front of me in line at the ticket counter smelled overwhelmingly like weed. I was a little worried I'd have to sit next to him on the train. Instead, I sat next to this weirdo. I was minding my own business, watching The Searchers, when I looked over and saw my boy wearing a big blue wig.
And then, somehow, it got stranger.
I grew up a Cardinals fan. I will always be a Cardinals fan. Of course, you can assume a lot of things based on that information, but it really all comes down to one thing: I hate the Cubs. The problem is that I spent a lot of time watching Cubs day games on WGN growing up. Lots of kids with cable in the 80s who a) liked baseball and b) had nothing else going on in the summer probably had a similar experience. In that time, I developed a bizarre fondness for the Cubs (and, for the same reasons, the Braves), like some strange manifestation of the Stockholm syndrome. Thus, I've always had a shameful (for a Cardinals fan) fascination with Wrigley Field. For the first time, the timing of the conference, my own schedule, and the Cubs schedule aligned ... I went to Wrigley Field. Here's the extraordinary hand operated scoreboard.
Truly, Wrigley is not much to look at from the outside. It's a bunch of concrete with virtually no personality. The major exception is the marquee.
Prior to going to the game, I was glancing at the policies of Wrigley Field on the Cubs' website. They say, in no uncertain terms, that
the Cubs do not have a mascot. It's written in such a direct manner that it almost reads like an insult to teams that do. In any event, it makes you wonder what exactly this is (creepy sex offender with a Bear costume?). Whatever the story, Jefferson wasn't buying it.
Wrigley was built in 1914. So some concrete crumbles and hits some people. Put up a net and shut up about it.
Our seats.
The Mom and a boy.
Me and a boy. Note: he's in toxic shock from the sheer amount of nitrites he'd just consumed after sucking down an enormous Chicago dog.
As I said, Wrigley is not much to see from the outside. But inside, brother ... it's breathtaking. This is the point at which the baseball fan in me battled the Cardinals fan in me and the baseball fan won. I hope Stan will forgive me.
The ivy doesn't turn green until May.
This is John Cusack "conducting" the 7th Inning Stretch.
As the Mom took this photo, a crusty old usher asked: "Eeyyy! You want me to take one of da tree of yous?" Awesome.
You should be able to tell two things about this photo: a) the Mom is DONE; b) the boy was fully asleep about 23 seconds after I took it.
