This entry was posted on Thursday, May 29th, 2008 at 9:25 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
It seems to me that baseball is something of a missed-opportunity sport. Really, any game that involves a heavy bat should include hitting more than just a ball. I get the whole “national pastime” aspect of baseball, but as I sat, shivering and trying desperately to flag down the beer guy at last night’s Cubs game, I couldn’t help but think what a difference some bloodshed would make to liven up the game. Barring that, a few scantily-clad women sashaying across the field wouldn’t hurt. Baseball must be the least rock n roll sport on the planet.
Not that I actually understand the logistics of it, of course. I’m sure baseball would be far more fascinating if I knew why it wasn’t appropriate for me to yell “DEFENSE!” in the middle of an inning. Still, there is an amusing cultural aspect to attending a game, which more than makes up for the lack of chair-gripping excitement.
Chicago itself has a lot to do with it. The crumbling “confines” of Wrigley Field are steeped in as much heritage as they are peanut shells, spilled beer, and pee. But even a heartless neophyte like myself can’t help but feel a small thrill walking in the gates: Wrigley Field is just such an iconic Chicago site, going there is one of the few things that makes me happy I live here.
Although I suppose that point is debatable depending on whom you ask. This town is spitefully divided between “North” and “South”-siders who will defend their turf and accompanying team more fiercely than street thugs and hookers. With parents from the south side, friends on the north side, and my personal home in the suburbs, my loyalty is typically to wherever I happen to be standing.
But of the group of friends I was with last night, one happened to be a die-hard White Sox fan. Had our tickets not been of the “VIP” variety and comped through a work connection, I’m certain he would have been less inclined to deign to walk through Wrigley’s hallowed gates.
His derision did make for some confusing moments for me, however. As I struggled to understand complex phrases like “bases loaded” and cheer at appropriate times, he took to applauding the opposing team. Not helpful for the chick who had to be told that hitting the guy at bat with the ball is actually a bad thing. (I think.)
In the end I wound up cheering for everything, which, with good company and a few beers, is an easy thing to do. What I lack in knowledge I do make up for in enthusiasm, even if my friends wouldn’t let me flash the players.
Maybe when the weather gets warmer.