I grew up thirty miles to the west of Wrigley Field and the
stadium that goes by whatever corporate name the new Comiskey has outside it
this year. Now I live seven hundred miles
to the east of those stadiums, fifteen miles north of Nationals Stadium, and
thirty miles south of Camden Yards.
As a kid, the boredom of summer was interrupted by trips
into the city to bake in the sun at the corner of Sheffield and Addison. I got to watch Fergie Jenkins go to
work. One of my little league baseball
cards lists Ron Cey as my favorite baseball and that I preferred to play third
base.
The addition of 670 miles of distance means that I can
replicate that exact experience with my kids.
But there are other options. Although
we are closer to the Nationals, the roots of the Orioles in our neighborhood
are deeper. It’s an inversion I
enjoy. In the western suburbs of
Chicago, rooting for the Cubs implied a rejection of the coarse ethnic poverty
of a de-industrializing city. The Cubs
were finance; the White Sox were the stockyards and freight trains. In the Prince George’s County suburbs of DC
within the Beltway, maintaining an affiliation with the Orioles implies a
rejection of K Street and government contractors. The Orioles are blue collar; the Nationals
are the law firms and lobbyists.
We are fifteen miles to the west of the home stadium of the
Baltimore Orioles’ AA affiliate, the Bowie Baysox. If I longed for the national pastime in the
summer, we head to Prince George’s Stadium.
Our kids’ school runs fundraisers at Baysox games. The club’s spring egg hunt is an annual
tradition and for the past three years, both kids had a birthday celebration at
the park. Many of the players they see
on the field for Bowie move up to Camden.
And established Orioles players often spend time with the Baysox – last year
our eldest got a baseball autographed by J.J. Hardy for a classmate that is
also a rabid Orioles fan. He was
thrilled. I revered Scott Sanderson. There is no accounting for who we attach to.
I like the Orioles. I
went on the middle school trip to the East Coast and came back with an Orioles
cap. In the nineties, when the Cubs were
horrible, Baltimore became something close to my second team.
I haven’t become an Orioles fan, nor have I encouraged my
kids to develop any ties to the franchise.
We cheer for D.C. United, for the Washington Mystics, and for the
University of Maryland’s teams as a family, but otherwise have left the other
sports alone. They know that I root for
the Cubs, Bears, and Bulls. They’ve been
members of Clark’s Crew for several years.
They have Cubs/Bears/Bulls gear.
Our eldest loves Charles Tillman and the concept of the Peanut
Punch. But that’s about all there is to
it. It had been something in the
background for them. Something they knew
was a part of their parents’ lives, but not something that they cared much
about. Like, they have to listen to me
playing The National all the time and they know some of the songs, but it’s not
their music and they will, if they have to, tolerate it for a while before
asking for Sabrina Carpenter.
Their friends have NFL teams, NBA teams, and MLB teams. They know that LeBron plays for the Cavs,
that Brady plays for the Patriots, and that lots of people like the Cowboys,
Lakers, and Yankees. Pressed on the
point by teammates, our eldest decided two years ago that she was a Pirates fan
and bought some Bucs gear when we stopped in Pittsburgh on our way to Michigan
for the Thanksgiving holiday.
For the twenty-plus years that my wife and I have been
together, the Cubs have been a significant part of our shared experiences. We burned a vacation in Mesa for a week of
spring training. It was my Disney
World. We try to go to Wrigley for a
game once a year. I went to the Cubs
Convention the year that Theo took over.
We’ve travelled to watch the team play in San Diego, Pittsburgh, and New
York (both at Shea and Yankee Stadium).
When John Smoltz closed out a Russ Ortiz win in Wrigley to even the
National League Divisional Series at two games a piece, we watched Sammy Sosa
fly out to center for the last out, jumped in the car, drove to Atlanta,
arrived at Turner a couple of hours before gametime, and were in the stands
celebrating with other fans as the team won its first playoff series since
1908.
At every location where Cubs fans congregate, there are
origin stories. People from towns you’d
never heard of, who killed time watching WGN, and loved Harry as if he was a
jovial uncle that was welcome in the house anytime. When that era ended, they listened to Ron
Santo on a radio stream however they could get it. That our start came as native Chicagoans made
us exceptions and opened up a battery of “what was it like?” questions
regarding our time inside the friendly confines.
This is all a long way of saying that I wanted to raise Cub
fans. But 670 more miles and no WGN
increased the degree of difficulty, so much so that I made peace with the fact
that it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe I’d
like learning about the Pirates if our eldest kept with that interest. Or about the Orioles if they succumbed to
peer pressure. Or major league baseball
would be like “City Middle” off of Alligator
– I’d thoroughly enjoy it, but it would just be background noise for my
progeny.
We bought season tickets to Broadway Chicago last year because
a season ticket was cheaper than a single ticket to Hamilton in Manhattan. We’d see Hamilton and Aladdin and be able to
gift the tickets to the other shows to family and friends. The date for our Hamilton tickets – set many,
many months in advance – happened to be October 8th. The week before we headed home, we realized
that if we got to the city early, our kids could stay with family and we could
go to Game 1 of the Divisional Series. A
playoff game in Wrigley. We bought two
tickets. When told the plan, our eldest
objected – why can’t I go? I want to
go. That’s a lot of money to piss away
on a kid that is likely to spend the final third of the game complaining that
she wants to leave or get ice cream or walk around. BUT.
But… she wanted to go to a Cubs game.
She wanted to go to Wrigley. For
a playoff game.
I bought an extra ticket, several rows back in the same
section, on an aisle. The two of them
would sit together and I would drop by from time to time to see if we needed to
switch seats. When we got to the game,
our kid wanted us to stay together.
Three people, two seats. We
checked with the people around us, including the Giants fans a row behind us,
and everyone was awesome. Jon Lester
versus Johnny Cueto. Two and a half
hours of edge of the seat tension, hemmed in by an electric crowd. As Javy Baez walked to the plate in the
bottom of the eighth, I bent down and told my daughter “Baez is one of the only
guys on this team that’s been able to read Cueto. I think he’s going to hit a home run.” Full count.
Tension still rising. Everyone on
their feet. Quick pitch. Upper cut.
Contact. From our seats on the
third base line, we could see the ball cut through the air, and could see Angel
Pagan tracking it back and getting his back up against the wall. I had sudden visions of the ball dying short
of the basket. Of being close, but
falling short. Of passing on the one
thing that has defined my lifelong love of the team: disappointment and resignation.
But the ball didn’t die.
As soon as it landed, I looked down and saw my daughter
beaming back up at me, and we were hopping.
Everyone (except the row behind us) was hopping.
We all sweat through Chapman’s ninth inning and then just
stood around inside the stadium until we were ushered out. At the gate before exiting, Theo came down,
grinning, allowing the adulation to wash over him and provide evidence that he
was just as emotionally involved in the spectacle as everyone that had paid to
get in. We walked around the outside of
the stadium for another half hour before catching the L home, sharing stories
about how we grew up here, how this was our childhood.
The next night, I wore a Cubs jersey to Hamilton. Before the curtain raised, all of the people around us had their phones out following what was happening a few miles to the north, including a refined Russian couple behind us that came in evening wear: “We’re up 4-0!” The show started. At intermission, the ushers immediately gave us an update, “5-2, they pulled Hendricks ‘cause he got hit with a ball.” The show was fantastic. Yet, walking out, the conversations were mixed. The mind-blowing experience of Hamilton versus being up 2-0, with a team that everyone loved.
The next day, we went to see In The Heights at the
Porchlight. We were enthralled. Afterwards, hanging out with the cast so that
our kids could ask them questions, we talked about the Cubs. About how this was nothing like 2003. And I think that they began to understand,
without us having to tell them, how the Cubs are part of the marrow of
Chicago. For better or worse, they got
to see why their parents are a little crazy but just like everyone else in
their hometown.
Back home, we watched the rest of the playoffs
together. They were sent to bed when the
rains game to delay Game 7 with me telling them that this is what it meant to
be a Cubs fan – to have hope, to see that hope crushed, and to, nevertheless,
renew your faith. They told me I was
wrong, that it was obvious that the Cubs would win, and they went to bed.
Being a Cubs fan is not about the excitement of the playoffs. It is not about the flickering. Maybe for Yankees fans or Braves fans or
Cardinals fans or Red Sox fans or Dodgers fans or Giants fans. Being a Cubs fan is about the grind of the regular
season. It’s 162 games of box scores and
sleepy games sitting amongst distracted fans.
We left things alone for the most part.
We signed them up for Clark’s Crew again, went to several Baysox games,
and watched a few Cubs games on television.
A month ago, we told them that we were going to a Cubs game
at Nationals Park. They didn’t object,
we watched the Cubs lose (badly) with Arrieta on the mound, and while they didn’t
seem to really enjoy themselves, we stayed until the game ended and there were
no complaints. We didn’t press our luck, knowing that we had
tentative plans to go to Camden to see the Cubs in July.
Last week, we went with our friends and their two kids to
watch Jake Arrieta pitch again. Our
friends left in the eighth, we stayed until the final out. We talked about the trade for Jose Quintana
and how his first start was the next day.
Could we pull it off? Could we go
to two games back-to-back?
We could. We
did. Again, we stayed to the last
out. Afterwards, they tried to watch as
much of the Braves series as they could.
The kids now tell people they are Cubs fans.
My eldest’s first softball card lists her favorite player as
Javy Baez.
Yesterday, I bought four tickets to see The National at the Anthem in December. Because I have hope. And sometimes hope is rewarded.
