National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

CHAPTER 8 WRIGLEY FIELD

  A pacifying hymn fills the streets of this zip code, one that leads us to an old American apogee: Wrigley Field. A visit here on game days is an incalculable dispatch for the sound human being, with its music box vibe that allures the imagination and kindles the senses. Bills, politics, laundry, the past, the future-none of it should matter for the next four hours. James and Gerry have parked inside more than just a shimmering, timeless cultural bubble of Wrigleyville, Chicago; soon after they step out of the pickup on Sheffield Avenue and begin to walk towards the iconic vista in frosty Illinois, they’ll slowly begin to understand why religions and travel agencies alike offer a Paradise.

  Just how satisfying can Wrigley be? It helps to own an appreciation for absolute ballgame novelties like foil wrapped hot dogs, turn-by-hand scoreboards, ivy covered walls, organ music, pinstripes, general admission bleacher seats and sipping on ice cold domestic beers in wind chills.

  But if you’re daring enough challenge the impact of Wrigley’s game day enchantment, try bringing a first date. The first date jitters will stay in the car, train or bus you came in. No silence is awkward. In fact, you won’t feel compelled to speak to your date until it comes time to find your seat or order your first adult beverage.

  “James!” A female voice is heard from a distance.

  And there she is, Miss America, wearing blue earmuffs and mittens alike. James loves taller than average women, and Tina Chaffe not only stands a comely 5’-8”, but she also has a crop of red hair reminiscent of Venus in Botticelli’s famous painting. But it’s the combination of her rosy fresh smile, sensual lips, green eyes of bliss and something about the way she carries herself, perhaps its just a tinge of nervous energy, that pleases James from the get-go. She is standing right where they had agreed to meet, at the Harry Caray statue. The late Cubs broadcaster never looked better.

  “Holy Cow!” James exclaims with open arms.

  Without much of an awkward hesitation, James and Tina will converge in a genuine hug.

  A red head who smells like sugar cookies, James thought. Tally that.

  Both of them come to their own realization that they hadn’t experienced a good hug in a long time. James even goes as far as effusively saying so out loud.

  Already, Tina judges her maiden encounter with James as a good first impression. James likes what he sees so far as well, but the damn marijuana effects keep reminding him to check out her nails.

  “What are you talking about?” Gerry lightly pardons, as the two pen pals separate after meeting each other for the first time in flesh.

  “You gave me a hug after I was released the other day!”

  James laughs a little at Gerry’s remark before introducing his friends to one another. Tina initiates a hug for Gerry, followed with condolences for his recent occupational setback, which he appreciates before making an observation.

  “Hey those are some great mittens you got there,” Gerry points discreetly.

  Tina then reveals that she’s wearing gloves that happen to convert to mittens, unveiling her fingers in the process.

  “I like them because the mitten part is great for holding my hand warmers at the finger tips,” Tina shyly explains, as she folds back the actual mitten cover in order to pull out a small white pouch. Her fingers are unblemished, while the nails appear to be professionally finished, painted in cherry red.

  “But you can’t hold a beer with mittens on, either,” she said, fastening the mitten to the small Velcro piece located on the backhand area.

  Clearly showing no intent to disguise the delight armed by his newfound sense of approval for Tina, James cocks his head sideways, and gapes into Gerry’s direction before stating, “If I didn’t mention it before,” now pointing his thumb in Tina’s direction. “She’s my mentor!”

  Then Gerry’s phone rings, while Tina gives James a playful backhand to the upper torso.

  After briefly waiting for an index finger pointed skyward-or any sign of communication from Gerry for further instruction, James will finally nod in his direction before joking, “I always remind him that I too went to college, but every time I registered for classes, Mind Reading 101 was already full.”

  Tina laughs at James’ tawdry wisecrack because she’s the kind of girl that loves to laugh. This so happens to be another irresistible female attribute that meets James’ liking.

  Momentarily each one begins to recognize, as they stand in each other’s presence for the first time, that they are both at ease. It’s a pinch me moment of sorts.

  “Are you going to be warm enough?” James and Tina ask each other simultaneously.

  They share a short, organic laugh. Tina looks to the ground while James puts his hands in his pockets and looks over her head, his posture leaning weight on his tippy toes.

  I could go for a cigarette, he thought.

  “That felt good, didn’t it?” Tina suggests.

  James agrees. They each go on to reveal their respective hidden implements used for staying warm. Though she’s not wearing a jacket, Tina is wearing a thermal body suit underneath a pair of overalls and a Cubs hooded sweatshirt. James is wearing two sets of socks, a long-john thermal shirt underneath his plain grey hooded sweatshirt and jean jacket. Tucked away in his pockets include purchases made in the last 24 hours: a pair of brown Isotoners that he found in a Mystic flea market, and a Notre Dame beanie acquired at the Indiana rest station.

  Tina laughs while reaching out to take a closer look at the gloves. “You know these are old ladies gloves?”

  “That’s what the ‘ol silver at the counter told me,” James began to speak in an endorsing tone. “But they feel so nice.

  “But you could dress me in Eskimo gear right now. After being in Florida for weeks, there’s just no way I could get acclimated to this overnight, you know?”

  Tina went on to explain the good news and bad news in regards to their tickets, which are general admission bleacher seats. The bad news: the bleacher seats represent the coldest part of the ballpark, as the average fan is more exposed to the elements, like scrambled winds, than anyone else. The good news: if they get in line to enter early enough, they can dash to an opening in the back row, where not only can one observe the street activity outside the park, but get a favorable view of the Chicago skyline as well.

  That was all James needs to hear. Without much hesitation, he walks over to Gerry, flashes his ticket and motions that they are ready to go in to the Cathedral.

  If you sit in the back rows of the Wrigley bleachers, one of the great mysteries in life is bound to grab your attention by the 3rd inning at the latest. How do the young men of the Midway do it? The acres of 25-40 year-old bleacher spectators are chock full of innumerate, inebriated and ample framed fellows. You may hear contemporary book readers and other high society types refer to these kinds of chaps as Meat Heads. But what makes this scene a sociological enigma is who you often see clinging to these lover boys: a clearinghouse of what Flyin’ Bryan would call “smoking hot, bro” girlfriends with their own attractive companions. Somehow, someway, these modern day beasts managed to gerrymander these female cherubs into joining their ever-swelling American tribe. This is the tribe’s convention.

  Of course what the beauties are always blindsided by is fine print that came with the merger itself. Because in any given calendar year, these men will spend more money on sports apparel, video games, porn and tattoos then they will for their own sweetheart on Valentine’s Day, birthday & Christmas combined.

  In the Wrigley bleachers, these tribesmen are in their element-and this is only baseball season. As previously stated, bringing a date is still encouraged-as you will have plenty to talk about over coffee afterwards. But for God’s sake, do your best to keep the children away from this revelry. As they only get one first impression of a great country’s fine landmark. You want the youngster to remember Wrigley for all its mysticism. This should come from spending the afternoon on the regal side of the tracks, as opposed
to the outfield peasant dwelling seeped in idolatry, blasphemy, mustard stains and everything else blockheaded.

  Man, those guys got it made in the shade, James thought.

  Seconds later and just two rows ahead, one of the buffoons spills a portion of his beer on one of his lady friends, then proceeds to slurp and lick all that’s been soaked up on her fleece lined shoulder. Upon finishing, he clenches both fists to the air and yells, “Zamboni!”

  “Still want to be Joe Schmoe?” Gerry cracks, sitting at the right of James.

  “It reminds me of those home videos you see on the local news,” James responds, unable to look away. “Of the baby deer happy to be kickin’ it with a toilet drinking hound.”

  Sitting at the left of James, Tina leans to the front, with a helplessly curious look produced by Gerry’s sly remark just seconds before.

  “What are you talking about?” She inquires a bit tentatively in Gerry’s direction, and without a smile for the first time today. Gerry drinks from his beer, giving James a second to answer first.

  “It’s nothing,” James politely appeals. “Well at least I don’t want to talk about it now,” he says kindly nudging at Gerry.

  Tina analytically pans her eyes between the poker faced James and Gerry’s mocking grin, as he’s looking straight ahead.

  “Well, when?” She says softly.

  “Well,” James responds without much hesitation. “Do you have time tonight, because Gerry has that meeting in Joliet in a few hours? He was going to take my truck if you agreed to have dinner with me.”

  “Are you asking me out Big Game James?” Tina says pleasantly surprised.

  Gerry can’t help but to burst out loud in laughter. This might be the first time he ever heard a female call James by the nickname he most likely appointed him with.

  “Yes,” James says, disguising his insecurity by admiring his Isotoner covered left hand but smiling in reaction to Gerry’s infectious laugh.

  Tina warmly rubs James’s back. “That would be nice.”

  James waits about half a minute before colorfully requesting, “Will you make your macaroni & cheese with ham?”

  “You don’t want to go out?” She asks, still smiling in flattery.

  “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in years,” he said. “I promise to help.”

  “Okay…do you want a salad?”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t have to be a fancy pants salad. Quality of course, but traditional is fine with me.”

  “Okay,” Tina says as she reaches into her purse for her reporter’s blotter and a pen. She begins to make a grocery list. In a minute, she will softly nudge at James’ left arm, tilting her head in the direction with casual emphasis.

  He notices the list of food items, but underneath it, circled and star crossed caps letters read: IT’S OKAY TO INVITE HIM.

  “Two percent milk? I had you pegged as a skim person,” James says with a flirtatious manner. “And I wouldn’t touch that bagged lettuce with a 10 foot pole, either.”

  Tina is shaking her head, appreciating the joke, but trying not to laugh.

  “I’ll be in charge of the salad,” James says, turning to Gerry in the process. “You’ll be done in time for dinner. You’d rather have fresh greens too, right?”

  Smarter than the average bear, Gerry politely declines, knowing this to be a pseudo invite. Although no plans of his own had actually been finalized yet, he goes on to tell James that the telephone conversation he had outside the stadium was with his agent, and the two were making arrangements for the meeting. What he chose not to reveal, however, is that his agent has prior business obligations to tend to late that afternoon, and therefore, Gerry would be stuck in the meeting with the skipper of the Joliet club on his own. He has no problem with that. He just needed to see his agent that evening for cocktail hour, a steak dinner and perhaps lodging, so that he could kill two birds with one stone: get a better handle on his baseball future and stay out of James and Tina’s way for the night.

  The baseball game itself, once it finally got going, proved to be worth skipping school for. The wind is blowing out of the park quite generously towards left field, and even the featherweight hitters were taking advantage; as the first batter of the game, on the first pitch nonetheless, hits a ball that must have landed 20 rows high into the bleacher seats. The fan that tried to throw the ball back into play was so blitzed that the ball didn’t clear the bleachers. The line drive throw went straight down into the first couple of rows where nine or ten coherent fans actually ducked, dodged, leaned, crouched and even scattered to get out of the way of a downhill moving ball that could have very easily sacrificed someone’s brew. Instead the ball did no harm, as it ricocheted off the aluminum bench and sprayed onto the field grass where the Cubs outfielder was ready and waiting to retrieve it as if he was contractually obligated to carry out such chores. The reaction from the throw itself caused such a hostile, invective laced uproar amongst roughly 100 square feet of bleacher faithful that security had no choice but to escort and remove the fan from the stadium, a la, Steve Bartman in 2003.

  Later tonight, Gerry will get the opportunity to revisit this scene courtesy of the local 11 o’clock news. Bleacher fans are interviewed on camera between the first and second inning for the sheer purpose of documenting the general reaction to a real precedent setter, an unwelcome metaphor on opening day. After all, this is a franchise that infamously hasn’t won a World Series since the days when Hitler was an aspiring painter, the Pony Express was seriously considering a comeback, and store bought bread did not come sliced.

  A mid-30’s, husky, ticked-off male Cubs fan is interviewed.

  “Blacklist him,” said the solemn fan.

  “Why do you say that?” The reporter asked.

  “It’s been over 100 years now,” the fan said, still deadpanned, in his reference to the last Cubs championship. “The franchise isn’t going to evolve? Fine. But we’ll be damned if the fans are not going to act like champions. This is the pros for God’s sake.”

  “No second chances for that guy then, huh?”

  “Get a clue.”

  The seasoned reporter will say nothing further in response, hoping the fan will drop one final juicy sound bite on his own.

  “Get a clue,” the fan says once more.

  Five innings and five homeruns later, with the Cubs trailing 10-6, Tina will sidestep her way out to the aisle in order to use the ladies room.

  As she makes her way down the steps, James reaches into his pocket and hands over the truck keys to Gerry and cordially reminds his friend to put both the GPS and satellite radio systems in the glove compartment when parked for extended periods.

  “And give ‘em hell,” James finishes.

  “Me?” Gerry questions in bemusement, his head shaking as he rests his hands back inside his pockets. “I got the job already. It’s you two who are auditioning for your future together tonight. How does it look so far?”

  “The old James would have scoffed at that comment,” James swiftly responds with a higher opinion of himself. “The new, carpenter trainee James couldn’t agree with your assessment more.”

  The conversation is interrupted when the crowd begins to cheer on the pitcher for the final out as the Cubs need one more strike to get off the field in the sixth. The big, left-handed Milwaukee batter wallops at a pitch outside, foul-tipping the bouncing ball behind the catcher.

  The cheering halts briefly. James continues on.

  “It looks rock solid so far. And if the status quo continues on through dinner and a movie, I’ll ask her to move to Connecticut with me.”

  “You’re really going to go through with this, huh?”

  “Hey, anything but going home with my tail between my legs at this point.”

  The crowd begins to cheer on the pitcher once more.

  James squints in to see the catcher’s sign. He notifies Gerry that he’s dangling around his four fingers. Gerry can’t believe the catcher is calling
for a changeup, on a pay-off pitch, this early in the season.

  “It better be a doozy,” Gerry said.

  The big batter takes another hack, foul tipping what looked like an off-speed pitch on the outside corner into the catcher’s glove. The umpire turns to his right and pulls his right fist violently near his head as is if he were starting a lawnmower. The third strike indeed, and the crowd responds with drunken delight as the Cubs can now attempt to rally in the home half of the sixth inning.