By Thaq Diesel

I found myself in Chicago for the Saturday game against the Reds (with seats behind home plate next to the players’ wives tickets).   Since I had nothing planned for Friday, I found my way to Wrigley to scalp a ticket.  How much would I have to pay to see the last-place Cubbies late in the season? 

The first non-shady looking guy I see is in the Taco Bell parking lot.  He leans over the back of a large truck and covers up the tickets as though I’m trying to cheat off him for the SAT or something.  Scalping tickets is illegal in Chicago and people must be conditioned enough about the police to act paranoid.  What’s insane is that the Cubs basically sell out from the start of the season so all you can buy are scalped tickets.  Ah – the legislature at work.

The best this guy can give me is $50 bleacher seats.  I tell him too high.  He says $40.  I tell him I can watch the game at a bar.  Then he get gets angry.  “Go ahead then!  GO!!!”  Not wanting to get shot (in a Taco Bell parking lot no less – I think that would void my life insurance policy), I saunter over to a ticket selling place across the street from the stadium and get upper deck seats for $10.  Much better.  On my way to the gate I notice vendors selling some pretty explicit T-shirts.  One was addressing the “Green Bay Fudge Packers.”  Another showed a picture of Ozzie Guillen kissing a White Sox player after they won the Series last year.  The title:  “The Fag Sox.  Hey Ozzie – it takes one to know one!”  At least that was  somewhat creative.

I enter the stadium.  I’ve been here four times before, my favorite being a 14-inning affair where we sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” twice and Harry Caray had to be held by his suspenders to keep from falling out of the booth.  I’m 33 years old.  And yet I unexpectedly get goosebumps entering this place.  It truly is one of the best venues in baseball (maybe the best).  I ask the man selling if I may buy a scorecard. He says, ”Well we finally got rid of Sammy Sosa so we can finally afford to make them again.  Now if we can just get rid of Wood and Prior…”  I’ve now witnessed a new low of bitterness and hell for baseball fans.  Then again, it has been a long, long time.  I didn’t stick around long enough to hear his Steve Bartman rant. 

I buy a beer on the way to my seats.  A pretty good indicator of the area around Wrigley, and many of the fans at the stadium, was embodied by this exchange in front of me.

• Yuppie woman being handed beer at concession stand:  “Thanks.  Um – do you have lime?”
• Grizzled concession stand employee with disgusted stare and a ‘no you didn’t!’ posture:  “…….”
• Yuppie, in can-do voice:  “I’ll just pretend I have a lime.”

With a scorecard in hand, a limeless beer in the other, I found my seat on the first base line three rows from the top.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  It was 75 degrees.  There was a light breeze.  I have never been more comfortable.  Just after the anthem and just before the first pitch, a group of Europeans (judging by their accents) sit in front of me.  A waif-thin six-foot (two meter) tall woman sits right in front of me.  I can tell immediately that a) she’s wearing low rider shorts b) she’s not wearing underwear and c) she’s showing copious amounts of butt crack, almost plumber amounts.  I just can’t decide if I find this sexy or not.  Four incredibly loud, large, bored women are sitting directly behind me.

The third pitch of the game is a foul ball landing two rows directly in front of me, which shows that even the upper deck is somewhat intimate here. The Cubs pitcher (Mateo) works quickly and dispatches the Reds in order for three innnings.  Arroyo struggles a bit early but pitches out of jams.  He is throwing junk, but it’s keeping the Cubs off balance.  Mateo leaves inexplicably (injured , and the Reds pounce on two walks to score four runs, including a home run with major english on it to left by David Ross.  I must also note that Aurilia has had a great year, the second-best of his career.  The Reds cruise from there. 

I’m into my third beer now.  After much internal debate, I’ve settled on the butt crack being sexy if not gratuitous.  The 7th inning stretch comes around and I get more goosebumps.  It is amazing how into the moment the entire stadium is for singing that song at Wrigley.  It is special, a rare and unique moment in sports. 

The 8th starts with the large women behind me singing 80’s songs. It then gets interesting as they delve into the finer points of Flavor Flav’s VH-1 show,  ”Flavor of Love.”  They decide that the woman named “Crazy” was getting a bad rap.  Specifically, I believe the sentiment was, “They hating on Crazy!”  I just love this stadium.

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