I’ve only felt it once before in my life (and, being Jewish, the other time involved a bar mitzvah, and, thank God, not a bris).
“What could make Eli feel this way?” you think. “Marriage? The Astros winning the World Series? Mitt Romney barely losing the upcoming Presidential election?”
No, actually, a Cubs game.
Just walking past Wrigley Field you get a sense of history. There are echoes of the Curse of the Billy Goat dooming the Cubs to baseball futility since 1945, of the bizarre College of Coaches used by the Cubs in 1960 (eight men – more than one opinion) and then you hear the first strains of a tune by the Chicago Cubs Dixieland Band.
This particular game, however, played July 18 against the Miami Marlins, was unique from the outset.
From “David Duh-JEE-zus” to “Jeff SaMARDzi-zi-zi-zi-zi-ja,” their introductions were so convincing I only realized mid-game that the Wrigley Field announcer doesn’t call the rest of the game that way.
For those of you poor, poor souls who haven’t experienced a Cubs game, seeing a Cub hit a homer is akin to discovering water when you’re stranded in a desert – you become crazy, giddily, uninhibitedly, happy. Even those who are just there “to see a good game” or are neutral to the Cubs and its opponent get caught up in the thrill ride for the next couple of innings.
Then, imagine what four more runs can do to you. If you imagined “more of the same,” you’d be correct.
Oh, the rain. Fortunately we were shielded by the roof above our heads, as our seats – luckily close to the action – were still farther back than most. But the crowd started to file out and in the top of the eighth inning, we did the same.
I’ve been in the middle of hurricanes, folks, but Midwest rain seems worse, at least outside. The rain itself wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, though it was bad. The lightning, though, was unusually strong.
I was getting rather anxious waiting for the ‘L’ train, which is basically a subway with rails that sometimes run elevated above ground. Then us Cubbies became sardines as we tried to wedge
ourselves into the narrow doors and hope we wouldn’t fall over.
Speaking of falling over on subways, I did just that. A lot. I’ve only ridden Houston’s Metro train once or twice before, so I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I then found that I have the worst time keeping my balance of anyone on the face of the Earth.
In short: seeing a White Sox game will never be that much fun.