Fine Line
I walked up to Jerry the scorecard guy by the Harry Caray statue and said, "Hey Jer, I took that pencil last night like you said and they won, so I still haven't taken it out of my pocket yet -- hopefully it's good luck." He said, "Oh sheesh! I'm out of scorecards. Watch the stand for me, would ya? I'll be back in two seconds." He ran off into the park, leaving me with about 100 programs and media guides and a dozen boxes of pencils. I stood there for a minute and smoked a cig. He came back out and asked how the golf course was. I said good. I know he doesn't golf -- he's just a grandpa and, equally, a round-the-year souvenir stand guy. In the winter he works at different theaters around town, mostly the Goodman. I saw him outside the Palace one afternoon last March and we had a nice chat. Since keeping score is my favorite thing about going to Cubs games, Jerry might be my favorite Tribune employee, players included.
Tonight was my 22nd of 44 home games. They are 9-13 in those games, which is just marginally (about 2%) better than their actual winning percentage, which comes as no surprise given the sample size. They won last night, but I can remember few details about the other 8 wins since they all came in the first two months of the season. I saw seven straight losses over the course of June and most of July, and there's no need to describe those defeats, except maybe to say that I went as the launching point for a better (or whatever you want to call it) story. I haven't written much about baseball this summer except in a peripheral sense, because most of what I've seen out on the field has made me want to vomit. What can I add to "Walker bobbled the ball," or "Jones missed both cut-off men," or "Ramirez jogged two sure doubles into singles," or "DLee isn't turning on inside fastballs like he did last year"?
I don't know what to say about it. The Cubs are a complete mess. But, the sorry level to which they have sunken allows me to get into the games -- and into fantastic seats -- for half price or less. Consider this: My brother and I went to see "Cars" last week (the detail of the animation was spectacular) and it cost about twenty bucks each for popcorn and tickets to a ninety minute film. On the other hand, my scalper gets me into the three hour game for twenty bucks and I give another $2 to Jerry for my scorecard. Sometimes I eat at the park, but usually I don't. So, the way I look at it, going to a ballgame -- even a sure-to-be bad ballgame -- provides me with a pretty good bang for my buck.
But it's not like I go because I'm getting a deal. Rationally speaking, I ought not go. I know they suck; everybody knows they suck. I go for so many other reasons besides the potential for a win. I go, first and foremost, because they are my mess, my guys, my Cubbies, even if I'd trade half of them in a heartbeat. I go because I have to believe that at some point they will get better. I go because Cedeno, Marshall, Murton, and the other rookies might become good players in the near future. I go to watch Maddux induce 40-homer guys into comeback grounders. I go to see DLee catch every throw that comes within ten feet of him. I go to watch the opposing pitcher get antsy with Pierre taking a ten-foot lead off first. I go because of the awesome lake breeze, and for the smell of hot dogs, and to spend time outside, and to people-watch. I go because my grandpa took me when I was little and I miss him. I go to scream, "America -- Fuck Yeah!" at the end of the National Anthem. I go because the summer slips away so quickly, and because I know that very soon I'll miss the rhythms of the game terribly, as I do every winter. I go because as long as I don't have a wife or kids to spend my money, I will go to half of the Cubs' home games, just like I promised myself I would when I was a kid.
You see, sports are not always about winning; sometimes it's got more to do with a thirst for the details of the moment as much as anything else, at least that's the way it goes with me. And therein, I think, lies the fine line separating what it means to like and what it means to love.
Also, happy birthday to my little sister.
Tonight was my 22nd of 44 home games. They are 9-13 in those games, which is just marginally (about 2%) better than their actual winning percentage, which comes as no surprise given the sample size. They won last night, but I can remember few details about the other 8 wins since they all came in the first two months of the season. I saw seven straight losses over the course of June and most of July, and there's no need to describe those defeats, except maybe to say that I went as the launching point for a better (or whatever you want to call it) story. I haven't written much about baseball this summer except in a peripheral sense, because most of what I've seen out on the field has made me want to vomit. What can I add to "Walker bobbled the ball," or "Jones missed both cut-off men," or "Ramirez jogged two sure doubles into singles," or "DLee isn't turning on inside fastballs like he did last year"?
I don't know what to say about it. The Cubs are a complete mess. But, the sorry level to which they have sunken allows me to get into the games -- and into fantastic seats -- for half price or less. Consider this: My brother and I went to see "Cars" last week (the detail of the animation was spectacular) and it cost about twenty bucks each for popcorn and tickets to a ninety minute film. On the other hand, my scalper gets me into the three hour game for twenty bucks and I give another $2 to Jerry for my scorecard. Sometimes I eat at the park, but usually I don't. So, the way I look at it, going to a ballgame -- even a sure-to-be bad ballgame -- provides me with a pretty good bang for my buck.
But it's not like I go because I'm getting a deal. Rationally speaking, I ought not go. I know they suck; everybody knows they suck. I go for so many other reasons besides the potential for a win. I go, first and foremost, because they are my mess, my guys, my Cubbies, even if I'd trade half of them in a heartbeat. I go because I have to believe that at some point they will get better. I go because Cedeno, Marshall, Murton, and the other rookies might become good players in the near future. I go to watch Maddux induce 40-homer guys into comeback grounders. I go to see DLee catch every throw that comes within ten feet of him. I go to watch the opposing pitcher get antsy with Pierre taking a ten-foot lead off first. I go because of the awesome lake breeze, and for the smell of hot dogs, and to spend time outside, and to people-watch. I go because my grandpa took me when I was little and I miss him. I go to scream, "America -- Fuck Yeah!" at the end of the National Anthem. I go because the summer slips away so quickly, and because I know that very soon I'll miss the rhythms of the game terribly, as I do every winter. I go because as long as I don't have a wife or kids to spend my money, I will go to half of the Cubs' home games, just like I promised myself I would when I was a kid.
You see, sports are not always about winning; sometimes it's got more to do with a thirst for the details of the moment as much as anything else, at least that's the way it goes with me. And therein, I think, lies the fine line separating what it means to like and what it means to love.
Also, happy birthday to my little sister.
posted by Pat at 11:48 PM
1 Comments:
hey pat-you're right, the cubbies are a sick mess, but i love 'em anyway
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