I Never Looked Away
I hate dwelling on things. That being said, it one of those inevitable things, especially for Cubs fans.
Tonight the Cubbies were terrible against the Marlins, dropping a 9-1 sleeper, thanks to a positively disastrous fifth inning and the amazing (and former Cub prospect) Dontrelle Willis. It was like they weren't even trying. It was painful to behold, but I get a little more used to it every time it happens.
I didn't want to think about it but, given the circumstances, Bartman is bound to loom large for as long as the Cubs face the Marlins. It's going to be that way for the rest of my life, and I won't ever forget about it.
I went from being a huge die-hard fan to harboring a serious baseball addiction during the summer of 2003. I was wrapping up grad school, with night classes three times per week, allowing me to attend around dozens of weekday afternoon games and still have plenty of time to shower up before class. That was the first year my family resumed Cubs season tickets, having unanimously voted to drop our Blackhawks ticket package. (People will crawl over dead bodies for Wrigley box seats, even if the team sucks; the state of the Blackhawks is so nauseating, we literally couldn't give the tickets away for nothing for the previous few years.) Before they made the playoffs, I had a feeling that they were going to be really good, but they seemed to have snuck up on most people. As a result, I more often than not bought the tickets day-of-game over the Internet. That was when I fell in love with the upper deck again--for $12, you couldn't beat it. (We had seasons in the u.d. for a couple years when I was younger, but I'd been locked into a downstairs-only groove during high school and college.) In short, going to Cubs games became the overwhelming activity of my summer.
Where were you when the collapse happened? Everybody remembers it, at least everybody I ever talked to. I was about 100 feet away from the tempest--not just Bartman, but the third base line--the heart of it all--I bet I was on national t.v. five times that night. I was sitting 10 feet from Rudy Giuliani. He signed my scorecard and me and my siblings took a picture with him. Rudy might be president one day, but everytime I look at that picture...I'll always remember that disaster.
Minutes before the collapse, with one out in the eighth and Mark Prior on cruise control, my mom began rummaging through her purse. "What are you doing, mom?" I asked. "Getting my camera out. I want to get a picture of you crying when they win." I froze in shock, as the reality of a World Series at Wrigley Field loomed perhaps twenty minutes into the future. My eyes teared up a bit, and my brother and sister hugged each other. Then came...that damn routine double play ground ball. I remember pumping my fist when I saw it was headed right to Gonzalez, looking up to see Grudzielanek running over to cover second, then the ball inexplicably bouncing out of Gonzo's glove. (He also blew his chances of winning the Gold Glove. He had a regular season fielding percentage of .984 with 5 errors. Eventual winner Edgar Renteria of the despised Cardinals was .974 with 16 errors. Stats apparently do lie.) I remember thinking right then that I might start puking. The air seemed to suck out of the place, and everything fell silent. They should have been out of the inning; instead, play went on. Prior was visably flustered after that play. That was the end.
I couldn't actually see the Bartman ball because of where I was sitting. Our season tickets are between third base and the bullpen's home plate, in the first row of section 110. Everybody in Wrigley was standing for each and every pitch at that point, which made it kind of tough to see every bit of the action. I remember catching a glimpse of Alou getting a good jump after hearing contact, and I assumed from the path of the ball that he could make a play on or near the wall. I saw the ball as it arced up and started down, but I lost sight of it at the last second as my sightline became obscured by heads. I heard a huge roar, and then a great flurry of activity on the field. I looked for my new favorite plays and saw Aramis throw his head back in disgust. I saw Sosa and Lofton run toward the field with their arms in the air. I remember seeing Prior point at Bartman and could read his lips, "That's fan interference." In a perfect world, it would have been. Then the hit parade started, and Baker inexplicably let Prior keep at it.
By the fifth hit of the inning, I felt like I was going to cry. I started to walk toward the stairway, and nobody even seemed to notice. I leaned against a pillar at the 110-111 concession stand and started chain smoking--faster than I ever had in my life. That's when I first saw the tape of the Bartman incident. I could have hunted him down and killed him with my bare hands. My face assumed a scowl. I stopped keeping score, and to this day I cannot bring myself to look at it or fill in the blanks. It was over.
I have no sympathy for Bartman, not even an inkling. Weak-ass people argue that any fan would have gone for the ball, that everyone wants a souvenir from a game. The players backed this reasoning because, I think, they didn't have any choice but to recite what the company recommended to them. If you asked any of those guys off the record what they thought about that play, they'd say that the company line was a load of crap, that they were disgusted. You can argue that he was one of many fans who reached out for the ball, but that doesn't mean that all those jackasses should get off scot-free. Those fucks should have respected where they were sitting and gotten the hell out of the way.
Something unique happened that night; it was beyond disappointment. I haven't gotten over it, really. I think about it every time I go near Wrigley, or even if I'm watching the Cubs on TV. I think I have become some sort of Cubs ghost--I'm haunting the park, waiting for the return of the sweet feeling that I was afforded for a few fleeting seconds, with just five outs to go, ready to explode in a rush of pure joy and elation into the cool fall air. Addiction or obsession don't even come close to capturing what the hunger for that feeling actually feels like. And it was those awful black, grey and teal uniforms of the Florida team that took it from me. How can I not remember that? Every time I'm in Florida, I think about it. Most every time I think about Florida in any capacity, it comes to mind. They robbed our great city of something that their franchise will never really appreciate.
Suddenly, everyone was really anxious, as though Cubs Nation had become a gaggle of little kids because of the playoffs: "Do it again! Do it again! Do it again!" The crowds at Wrigley would get all tensed up on every routine pop out to third. Every passed ball or stolen base was treated like the biggest thing since the color t.v. We thought they should win, therefore it didn't happen. It's no wonder they were so dysfunctional last year--they never really got around to playing good baseball, because the pressure of expectation haunted them from the get-go.
Even though it's only mid-June, it seems like people have given up on these guys already. Cubs fans are so manic--it's either all or nothing--we're either the best or we're crap. The reality of the game is, the best teams aren't completely overwhelming--they manage to be just a little bit better than the other guy most of the time. I have hope because they seem to have struck a balance within those two factors: the Cubs seem to be just a little bit more talented than most teams I've seen, and nobody seems to expect great things from them, what with all the injuries. I'm not counting them out just yet. Their bullpen has finally firmed up; Hendry is a genius and will make a trade; and Wood, Prior and Nomar are expected back at some point this year.
At tonight's game, some two-and-a-half years after the Bartman incident, I insisted that my broker hook me up with a seat on the first base side, on the opposite side of the park as my position that terrible night. But the torrent of singles and doubles, also with one out in the inning, just made me want to puke--even if it was the fifth inning as opposed to the eighth.
One of the most faith-inspiring songs I've ever heard is Genesis by Hot Tuna. There's a line that goes, "And when we walked into the day / Skies of blue had turned to grey / I might not have been quite clear to say / I never looked away." Well, tonight I didn't go downstairs until my usual fifth inning smoke break. I watched every last out, and though I am getting better at handling the regular disappointments of watching the Cubs lose, I still couldn't think about how crappy that asshole Bartman still makes me feel. I'm still going to wait and watch to see if they can do it again, because when the Cubs finally do win the World Series, it's going to be better than the best.
Don't ghosts linger until the wrong that's associated with their past is ameliorated one way or another? If I am around when they finally do win it all, I might just quit going to games all together--I'm serious. I know that I'll never feel as elated by any other sporting event for as long as I live, Maybe I as a ghost of Wrigley Field will finally feel like I can let go. But, win or lose, I'll always think of pain when I see the Marlins.
Tonight the Cubbies were terrible against the Marlins, dropping a 9-1 sleeper, thanks to a positively disastrous fifth inning and the amazing (and former Cub prospect) Dontrelle Willis. It was like they weren't even trying. It was painful to behold, but I get a little more used to it every time it happens.
I didn't want to think about it but, given the circumstances, Bartman is bound to loom large for as long as the Cubs face the Marlins. It's going to be that way for the rest of my life, and I won't ever forget about it.
I went from being a huge die-hard fan to harboring a serious baseball addiction during the summer of 2003. I was wrapping up grad school, with night classes three times per week, allowing me to attend around dozens of weekday afternoon games and still have plenty of time to shower up before class. That was the first year my family resumed Cubs season tickets, having unanimously voted to drop our Blackhawks ticket package. (People will crawl over dead bodies for Wrigley box seats, even if the team sucks; the state of the Blackhawks is so nauseating, we literally couldn't give the tickets away for nothing for the previous few years.) Before they made the playoffs, I had a feeling that they were going to be really good, but they seemed to have snuck up on most people. As a result, I more often than not bought the tickets day-of-game over the Internet. That was when I fell in love with the upper deck again--for $12, you couldn't beat it. (We had seasons in the u.d. for a couple years when I was younger, but I'd been locked into a downstairs-only groove during high school and college.) In short, going to Cubs games became the overwhelming activity of my summer.
Where were you when the collapse happened? Everybody remembers it, at least everybody I ever talked to. I was about 100 feet away from the tempest--not just Bartman, but the third base line--the heart of it all--I bet I was on national t.v. five times that night. I was sitting 10 feet from Rudy Giuliani. He signed my scorecard and me and my siblings took a picture with him. Rudy might be president one day, but everytime I look at that picture...I'll always remember that disaster.
Minutes before the collapse, with one out in the eighth and Mark Prior on cruise control, my mom began rummaging through her purse. "What are you doing, mom?" I asked. "Getting my camera out. I want to get a picture of you crying when they win." I froze in shock, as the reality of a World Series at Wrigley Field loomed perhaps twenty minutes into the future. My eyes teared up a bit, and my brother and sister hugged each other. Then came...that damn routine double play ground ball. I remember pumping my fist when I saw it was headed right to Gonzalez, looking up to see Grudzielanek running over to cover second, then the ball inexplicably bouncing out of Gonzo's glove. (He also blew his chances of winning the Gold Glove. He had a regular season fielding percentage of .984 with 5 errors. Eventual winner Edgar Renteria of the despised Cardinals was .974 with 16 errors. Stats apparently do lie.) I remember thinking right then that I might start puking. The air seemed to suck out of the place, and everything fell silent. They should have been out of the inning; instead, play went on. Prior was visably flustered after that play. That was the end.
I couldn't actually see the Bartman ball because of where I was sitting. Our season tickets are between third base and the bullpen's home plate, in the first row of section 110. Everybody in Wrigley was standing for each and every pitch at that point, which made it kind of tough to see every bit of the action. I remember catching a glimpse of Alou getting a good jump after hearing contact, and I assumed from the path of the ball that he could make a play on or near the wall. I saw the ball as it arced up and started down, but I lost sight of it at the last second as my sightline became obscured by heads. I heard a huge roar, and then a great flurry of activity on the field. I looked for my new favorite plays and saw Aramis throw his head back in disgust. I saw Sosa and Lofton run toward the field with their arms in the air. I remember seeing Prior point at Bartman and could read his lips, "That's fan interference." In a perfect world, it would have been. Then the hit parade started, and Baker inexplicably let Prior keep at it.
By the fifth hit of the inning, I felt like I was going to cry. I started to walk toward the stairway, and nobody even seemed to notice. I leaned against a pillar at the 110-111 concession stand and started chain smoking--faster than I ever had in my life. That's when I first saw the tape of the Bartman incident. I could have hunted him down and killed him with my bare hands. My face assumed a scowl. I stopped keeping score, and to this day I cannot bring myself to look at it or fill in the blanks. It was over.
I have no sympathy for Bartman, not even an inkling. Weak-ass people argue that any fan would have gone for the ball, that everyone wants a souvenir from a game. The players backed this reasoning because, I think, they didn't have any choice but to recite what the company recommended to them. If you asked any of those guys off the record what they thought about that play, they'd say that the company line was a load of crap, that they were disgusted. You can argue that he was one of many fans who reached out for the ball, but that doesn't mean that all those jackasses should get off scot-free. Those fucks should have respected where they were sitting and gotten the hell out of the way.
Something unique happened that night; it was beyond disappointment. I haven't gotten over it, really. I think about it every time I go near Wrigley, or even if I'm watching the Cubs on TV. I think I have become some sort of Cubs ghost--I'm haunting the park, waiting for the return of the sweet feeling that I was afforded for a few fleeting seconds, with just five outs to go, ready to explode in a rush of pure joy and elation into the cool fall air. Addiction or obsession don't even come close to capturing what the hunger for that feeling actually feels like. And it was those awful black, grey and teal uniforms of the Florida team that took it from me. How can I not remember that? Every time I'm in Florida, I think about it. Most every time I think about Florida in any capacity, it comes to mind. They robbed our great city of something that their franchise will never really appreciate.
Suddenly, everyone was really anxious, as though Cubs Nation had become a gaggle of little kids because of the playoffs: "Do it again! Do it again! Do it again!" The crowds at Wrigley would get all tensed up on every routine pop out to third. Every passed ball or stolen base was treated like the biggest thing since the color t.v. We thought they should win, therefore it didn't happen. It's no wonder they were so dysfunctional last year--they never really got around to playing good baseball, because the pressure of expectation haunted them from the get-go.
Even though it's only mid-June, it seems like people have given up on these guys already. Cubs fans are so manic--it's either all or nothing--we're either the best or we're crap. The reality of the game is, the best teams aren't completely overwhelming--they manage to be just a little bit better than the other guy most of the time. I have hope because they seem to have struck a balance within those two factors: the Cubs seem to be just a little bit more talented than most teams I've seen, and nobody seems to expect great things from them, what with all the injuries. I'm not counting them out just yet. Their bullpen has finally firmed up; Hendry is a genius and will make a trade; and Wood, Prior and Nomar are expected back at some point this year.
At tonight's game, some two-and-a-half years after the Bartman incident, I insisted that my broker hook me up with a seat on the first base side, on the opposite side of the park as my position that terrible night. But the torrent of singles and doubles, also with one out in the inning, just made me want to puke--even if it was the fifth inning as opposed to the eighth.
One of the most faith-inspiring songs I've ever heard is Genesis by Hot Tuna. There's a line that goes, "And when we walked into the day / Skies of blue had turned to grey / I might not have been quite clear to say / I never looked away." Well, tonight I didn't go downstairs until my usual fifth inning smoke break. I watched every last out, and though I am getting better at handling the regular disappointments of watching the Cubs lose, I still couldn't think about how crappy that asshole Bartman still makes me feel. I'm still going to wait and watch to see if they can do it again, because when the Cubs finally do win the World Series, it's going to be better than the best.
Don't ghosts linger until the wrong that's associated with their past is ameliorated one way or another? If I am around when they finally do win it all, I might just quit going to games all together--I'm serious. I know that I'll never feel as elated by any other sporting event for as long as I live, Maybe I as a ghost of Wrigley Field will finally feel like I can let go. But, win or lose, I'll always think of pain when I see the Marlins.
posted by Pat at 10:49 PM
1 Comments:
I think some more appropriate lyrics for Cub fans are "Well the first days are the hardest days, don’t you worry any more,’cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door." You know the band. It was not Bartmans fault at all. The game is played between the lines. If you want blame, try blaming Nosemar last season in the stretch run when the Cubs were choking their Wild Card Spot away and he bunts with nobody out and men on first and second. The best contact hitter the Cubs had before the emergence of DLEE. It was a total flop. Nosemar was clearly trying to take an early vacation with Mia Hamm-face. Don't even get me started on the skipper. Possibly the most overrated coach in all of sports, even Frank Robinson is out managing his ass. You will never win anything with that bum coaching. Say what you want about the OZ but I have never heard him whine or make an excuse. Even last year when they lost Frank and Mags, he went on record saying injuries are part of the game and expectations should not be lowered. That is how a man goes about his business. Sox rock and the Cubs roll over.
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