The Friendly Confines

I survived another trip to the Midwest.

Chicago makes it all acceptable to me. It clearly doesn't belong in the middle of this country. It's a city with a level of sophistication. Unlike New York, it's clean, relatively uncongested, and there were no steam pipe explosions while I was there. Unlike Los Angeles, there's more to life in Chicago than show business, Botox injections, and pretentiousness. And I am also betting that Chicago's mayor has slept with his wife this week.

The so-called Second City is walkable, manageable, and livable. Of course, all bets are off if you're standing on Michigan Avenue in the dead of January with a 75 mph wind blowing off the lake. But, beyond all the pros and cons, Chicago has one thing that nobody else can top.

Wrigley Field.

It is baseball heaven. Nirvana. Utopia. As beautiful as Dodger Stadium is, there is something magical about walking down Addison and seeing that brick edifice loom up like a cathedral.

When I was a kid, the way to go to a ball park was via the subway. Before I realized how utterly toxic the place was, there was a majestic feeling when that #4 train emerged from the tunnel and you suddenly found yourself at Yankee Stadium. Of course, I would now prefer sunbathing at Love Canal than enter that temple of horrors. But, I get the same sensation serendipity when that Howard line train approaches Wrigley Field. My heart beats faster. My eyes can't fully absorb all the splendor. And I'm not even a Cub fan.

Back in the early 90s, I made an annual pilgrimage to baseball mecca. It was usually tied to a Met-Cub series and I would be the glutton of punishment, because the Mets invariably would lose 3 of 4. But, it was all about the aura and not the final scores. The ivy. Murphy's Bleachers for Bratwurst. the greener than green outfield. Comfort food served baseball-style.

It had been some time since I had been back. But, on Monday, I had a rare epiphany as I flew into O'Hare. Timing would be such that I would be checking into my downtown hotel about 90 minutes before first ESPN pitch. There was added incentive. It was a free night on a business trip and one of my younger associates was also flying in on what was his birthday. How would I score two, ticket-style?

The Westin had a baseball-friendly concierge on staff and she had a ticket broker on the line who had about as much resistance as Lindsay Lohan at a wine tasting club. The price on tickets for that night were dropping faster than a bridge in Minneapolis. One hour later, we were holding onto the poles of a lurching subway at State Street.

We got the Ferris Bueller seats. Field level down the left field line. Two rows behind where that Steve Bartman character single-handedly dropkicked the Cubs out of World Series potentiality. I bought a brat and soaked it all in. My associate had a great birthday evening.

And I had it all one more time. Is it always pretty there? Hell, no. Assholes come in all cities as the following video shows. But, still...

I inhale. I exhale. Life as it ought to be.

Dinner last night: Dodger Dog at the game.