J.'s Night Out... at Wrigley Field

On this night, I went to the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field, and left with a sign from the gods.

It all started with tickets. Free tickets to the Cubs vs. Brewers game, provided by a vendor who wanted to make nice with my boss. She, in turn, gave them to her diligent, industrious, and appreciative underlings. Let us sing her praises.

Game day arrived, and I got to leave work early — okay, ten minutes. But, considering the late nights I’ve put in the last few months, I got to leave early.

The ride home on the L was almost unbearable. It was 90 and humid outside; thanks to a misfiring AC, it was 89 and humid inside the train. Normally, my ride home disappears in reading and music. Unfortunately, I had just finished the Soul Drinkers Omnibus, and my busted headphones rendered my iPod useless.

I never realized how bad construction was on the Brown Line of Chicago’s elevated trains. Without my distractions, all I could to was stand in a packed train car thinking, “Why have we stopped… again?!”

Eventually, I was able to pour out of the train, hurrying home to the twin comforts of working AC and adorable kittens. I engorged myself on water, added a little chocolate to the stomach, and headed out to meet my co-workers at Murphy’s.

Now, I had looked up where we were going to be sitting. According to the schematic found on the Cubs’ website, they appeared to be choice seats. But I was not prepared for the splendor of walking into Wrigley Field, fried grease and cold beer striking my nostrils, and through the tunnel to the boxes. The helpful ushers showed us to our seats, nine rows back from behind home plate.

Okay, it was to the first base side of home plate. Such details were unimportant, as I realized how freakin’ young Rich Hill looks.

I was enraptured. To make things even more divine I watched Corey Hart drive in a run on a sac fly. First blood went to my Brewers! Plus, you know, he’s on my fantasy baseball team, and I could really use those RBIs.

And it only got better. Jeff Suppan pitched a quality outing. Hart added two more of those delectable RBIs in the 5th inning. And that overpriced food tasted so good as it passed over my tongue. Never had a small hot dog and watery, brand-name American beer tasted so delicious.

Then came… the 7th inning.

It started promising, as disasters tend to. Suppan, still fresh after only 80-some pitches, had two strikes on Cliff Floyd. And then, he plunked the batter. Manager Ned Yost came out, and called for the veteran reliever.

If you’re a Brewer fan, and you’ve been following them this year, you know what the script holds. And most of the words to describe it are of the four-letter variety. Oh, sure, it seems like everything’s okay. I mean, that’s Scott Linebrink, longtime dominant set-up guy acquired from San Diego. Fans across the MLB spectrum would love to see such a face with the tying run at the plate.

Unless you’ve followed the Brewers; in that case, you know that Milwaukee is constantly on the knife’s edge lately, no matter the score. Or the pitcher. Or the opposing hitter. And the Brewers cannot escape this scenario without slashes and massive blood loss.

Linebrink gives up a base hit. Jacque Jones ties it up with a 2-RBI double. Then, as I ponder the effect of extra innings upon my ability to wake up for work the next day, I start to hope. Linebrink intentionally walks a guy, but he’s gotten two outs! And Ryan Theriot has just hit a soft high-hopper back to the pitcher—

Who promptly knocks it down and boots it. Like some bizarro Buster Keaton film, the Chicago faithful groan as they expect the third out — and suddenly, there is uproarious, joyous cheering. With Linebrink waddling around like a Keystone Kop, the Cubs scored the go-ahead run.

By the time it was all said and done, another run scored, before a rookie pitcher was brought in to get that final, elusive out.

But a two-run deficit is nothing, right? Especially for the hard-hitting Brewers, right?

My friend, if you have to ask, you have not followed Milwaukee since the All-Star break. The script, so predictable that even Hollywood would thumb its nose, is as follows: The Brewers will mount a comeback. They’ll get the tying run to the plate, perhaps even the go-ahead run. Then, no matter how many outs there were when the rally starts, it will stop. With everyone stranded. No runs, no win, no joy.

And that script started all over again. In the 8th, the Brewers had two men on, with two out. Throughout the inning, all I could think was, “I’ve seen how this will end. I know the disappointment that will ensue.” And yet, part of me screamed, raging against the fates; all I wanted was to be proved wrong. It wasn’t even hope — merely the need to be wrong.

Up stepped Gabe Gross; not exactly the guy you want in the clutch, but he’s been swingin’ a hot stick lately. He worked the count to full. And then fouled off a pitch. And fouled off another. And another.

It continued like this for ages. I lost count of how many pitches were thrown, only to be fouled off. Some guy named Godot showed up during the at-bat, looking for a couple of blokes in bowler hats.

Then! A solid crack! The ball is screaming over—

I mean, right into the second baseman’s raised glove. Four-letter word.

I think I can equate the feeling to… well, I imagine it would be like a devout Christian coming to the slow but inevitable conclusion that there is no God. And in one impeccably painful moment, that conclusion stands in front of him, naked and irrefutable.
(I say “imagine,” since I steer away from anything that is supposedly irrefutable. I’m all about possibilities. But we’re not here for my Nietszchean tendencies; heartbreak is so much more exciting.)

The rest of the game was… well, it happened. I think I was starting to feel the effects of constant sweating and not much eating. Or that feeling of adrenaline suddenly stopped short, the bodily chemical trapped without any means of escape, and nothing to be used towards.

I shambled out of the aisles, noting the bitter taste in my mouth (left by that watery brew, no doubt), with the choirs of the faithful singing all around my heathen ears. Instead of incense and a hymn, though, there was the smell of beer & sweat and the hymn was “Go Cubs Go.”

On the walk back to my apartment, I was hit by an epiphany. Thankfully, I put some ice on the resulting bruise. Freakin’ epiphany. I also had a realization. It was time to give up on the Brewers chances this season, and enjoy the playoff races across Major League Baseball. In other words, the same thing I’ve done every year since my introduction to baseball. Only this time, the moment had arrived later than usual.

Now, this is not the melancholic “wait until next year…” I save that for football.

Rather, it’s just a natural part of fandom. We’ve fallen from decisively being in first place to… Well, we’ve now got a losing record, we’re third, and even if we win this series with the Cubs, we could still be in third. It could be sad, but it is true. And we (theoretically) could pull it off, but hope is such a dangerous thing to spectators.

Instead, I’ve got my adorable kitties to play with, and a wedding I’m looking forward to. Not to mention, Corey Hart racked up 3 RBIs for my fantasy team tonight.

In the end, the epiphany has been freeing, even if painful. At least the bruise looks like the face of Jesus.

Or is that Odin? Man, these miraculous signs are so difficult to interpret.