So last night, I went to Wrigley Field. In the three years that I have now called Chicago home, it was a first for me. I mean, I don't share in the city's pathalogical devotion to their lovable losers and frankly, I've always liked going to Comiskey if I have to go to a game (they have Veggie Dogs!). But because one of our agencies
was gracious enough to invite me (e.g. the tickets were free), I decided to give it a go. In reality, it wasn't so awful. The park has a certain Americana charm to it - from the warbling of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" during the seventh inning stretch to the people who still turn the scoreboard by hand. And they won last night, so the game itself was pretty good. But as nice as as the stadium was, as good as the nachos were the ride home confirmed my abject dislike for the Cubs nation.
See, there are a couple of different types of people at a Cubs game: There are old folks, who have likely been following the team since the fall of Rome. There are families with their children, usually between 7 and 12 years old - admittedly, some of these kids are pretty adorable. But then there's this sort of knuckle head, drunken, frat boy contingent. Imagine if you will a bus of Gotti brothers, flush from their keg stand atop a fountain of Old Style. All in the same requisite uniform: a skin tight "vintage" Cubs t-shirt, Abercrombie jeans and a pair of mandals, with their dried out, fuzzy toes poking out. I had the "pleasure" of spending an hour commuting home with a busful/trainful of these folks last night (for the record, I live 4 miles away) and I couldn't deal with it. Maybe it's because it was pushing 11 p.m., and I had gotten to work at 7:30 that morning and I was just tired and cranky. But just to play it safe, it's back to the Southside for me.
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