Outside Oberlin
Wrigley
and Chicago Show the True Baseball Experience
by
Zach Pretzer and Ian Haynes
As
my two teammates, who for the sake of privacy well call Eight
and Mr. Chicago, strolled onto the lawn of our friend, who well
call The Dude, on Sunday at 3 a.m., The Dude and I were already
getting into the car and preparing for our voyage to the Windy City
and an afternoon baseball game at Wrigley Field. Eight jumped off
of his newly acquired bike and stumbled to the car while Mr. Chicago
uneventfully jumped in the rear seat in The Dudes Ford Focus,
and from there, while all the Obies in Obie-land languidly walked
back to their dorms after a night of drunken fun, our journey began.
After being awake for roughly 21 hours apiece, the four of us encountered
the first significant happening of our trip when along the Indiana
Turnpike our Focus was almost demolished by some animal that closely
resembled a wooly mammoth or sloth. The Dude quickly maneuvered
out of the way of the death-ridden beast, and after counting our
blessings we cruised into a roadside Dunkin Donuts at about
6 a.m. and took pictures with the workers to take home for our coach,
who is widely regarded as a prominent connoisseur of fine pastry
products. The employees of Dunkin Donuts didnt seem
too happy standing next to Eight and Mr. Chicago, who reeked from
their over-consumption and stripper yuck from the bachelor party
of the night before, but nonetheless the photo opportunity was seized
and our travels to the Windy City carried on.
Following a few more near-death experiences with giant turnpike
beasts (youd be surprised how many animals wish to end their
lives prematurely before the sun rises), The Dude finally led our
car off of Route 80 into Chicago and soon we could see the Sears
Tower and F.A.O. Schwarz in the distance. Well, perhaps we couldnt
quite see the immense toy store yet but it was nevertheless already
in all of our minds, although thoughts of giant pizzas and bleacher
seats at Wrigley Field certainly paid visits to our heads as well.
It should at this point be noted that there is a distinct reason
Mr. Chicago has earned his pseudonym for this article. A native
of Naperville (which is only about 25 miles outside the city of
wind and good pizza), Mr. Chicago knew absolutely nothing about
the city, other than how to get to Wrigley Field. As a lover of
the game of baseball, I can truly appreciate that. However, since
we arrived in the city nearly five hours before game time, which
was 1:20 p.m., our sleep-deprived yet strangely wide-awake quartet
needed to know how to reach other places of fun and intrigue than
just Wrigley Field. After Mr. Chicago caused us to become lost in
the ghettos of the South Side of Chicago for a while, we finally
arrived in a nice part of town that oddly resembled Oberlin
it was perhaps even more diversely interesting. Thus, we were content
in parking in an area of familiarity and headed out for a view of
Wrigley Field, perhaps one of the most heavenly and welcoming ballparks
in all the land. The ticket office didnt open for several
more hours, so being satisfied with a temporary visit to the home
of the Chicago Cubs we decided to hit up the El (elevated train)
to embark on a trip to the infamous toy store of the big city, F.A.O.
Schwarz. I was personally almost as excited to play around in the
toy store as I was to attend the Cubs game, but before my excitement
could be justified the four of us became aware of a peculiar detail
about stores on Sundays throughout the country, not just in Chicago:
theyre not open for very long, and certainly not open early.
Its amazing what extremely important facts can be ignored
when living in the little bubble we like to call Oberlin for any
extended period of time. Nonetheless, we soon realized that we had
four and a half-hours to kill and really nothing to do and became
slightly angered at The Dude for suggesting we leave Oberlin at
3 a.m. so we could enjoy the city a little bit before the
game, but we would later appreciate his idea as it added all
the more to the making of a quality road trip.
At this point, we had really no idea what to do with ourselves,
and we were hardly waiting on the advice of Mr. Chicago to suggest
a great place to visit. Instead, we decided to stroll around the
area for a while, and after walking past about eight Starbucks Coffee
Houses, we came upon another Dunkin Donuts. Naturally, we
snapped another picture to bring back to our coach, and soon after
The Dude busted some excellent words of wisdom. He knew of a great
mall, The Water Tower Place, to kill some time at, and
it was near the toy store which we were waiting on to open. By now,
it was 10 a.m., and it wasnt long after we arrived in the
mall that we came to the disturbing realization that absolutely
nothing in the city of Chicago is open on Sunday mornings. After
playing around in the glass see-through elevators and purchasing
miniscule cups of lemonade for $2.50 with an apparent 100 percent
sales tax, we left the once hope-filled mall, and returned to our
original source of entertainment, F.A.O. Schwarz.
Well, it was one thing that the damn toy store wasnt open
early, but apparently they didnt even have hours posted on
the door. In hopes that the store would soon open, we visited the
neighboring Borders and killed a little more time, and returned
to the world of toys around 11 a.m. in anticipation
that they would finally be open. Despite all of our hopes and dreams,
the bastards were still closed, and it finally dawned on us that
they actually made up their hours at their own convenience. For
the time being, we lost our patience with the gaming heaven and
turned our thoughts to a more immediate subject of urgency: Chicago-style
deep-dish pizza. The thought of it now almost makes me drool on
the keyboard as I write.
The renowned pizza parlor, Giordannos Pizza, was our destination,
but firstly we had to locate it. The Dude, a native of Wyoming and
subsequently a fine-tuned outdoorsman, suggested we head in one
direction and continue to do so, so we did. Along the way, our tetrad
of road trippers for some reason or another became aware of the
need to visit the bathroom after all, we had now been awake
for 30 hours and had been so excited about the thoughts of actually
venturing out of O-town that peeing had been completely secondary
until then.
The first place that came to mind as a good place to use the bathroom
was a hotel that was across the street. The Sheridan, probably the
second-best hotel in Chicago, looked promising as a place to relinquish
the pressure on our bladders that we had recently discovered. The
Dude asked the bellhop if we could use the bathroom, and after taking
a long look at us, he kindly responded, We dont have
any bathrooms. We were baffled by this response, and were
near the point of asking him, Well then Mr. Bellhop, where
do your residents use the bathroom? Instead, we accepted our
denial and entered the doors right next to the Sheridan, those of
the Four Seasons Hotel. We first asked their bellhop if they just
had a bathroom, and he looked at us rather confusedly and told us
that they were on the seventh floor.
So we finally paid a visit to the bathroom, but we couldnt
have possibly known that our newest of troubles was only right around
the corner, literally. As we left the bathroom, which by the way
was the most ridiculously lavish bathroom I have ever laid my eyes
upon, we turned the corner and entered the elevator to go back down
to the first floor. Unfortunately for us, the elevator only had
really big floor numbers ranging from seven to 35 or something,
and we unaware that we had to take another elevator on the other
side of the floor to get back down to ground level. So, we walked
around a little in what was possibly the most beautiful hotel ever
known to man or woman, took our picture in front of some really
expensive things that we had no right to be in the same room with,
and were finally instructed about a half-hour later by a few people
where the correct elevator was located. We realized it was too good
to be true certainly the only reason the bellhop let our
asses into the Four Seasons was because he knew we would never make
it out.
We
left the Four Seasons and then noticed that we were underneath some
absurdly tall buildings, so we stared up at them as the clouds passed
by. It was at this point that not only did we realize we were extremely
dizzy and once again lost, but we were complete hicks, hardly different
from Crocodile Dundee visiting New York City. We finally made it
to Giordannos, noticing only as we arrived that it was basically
across the street from the Borders we visited an hour ago. Eh, one
block east, ten blocks west, whats the difference. After eating
the tastiest pizza of our lives, we finally ventured back onto the
El and made it to the original reason for our entire trip, the beloved
Wrigley Field.
We gave away an extra ticket to a little kid whose dad was attempting
to purchase an extra bleacher seat, and failed to give away the
other ticket as we couldnt find a suitable girl to attempt
to hook up with Mr. Chicago. As we waited in line to enter Wrigley,
it didnt take long for us to become mindful of the fact that
Chicago Cubs fans are completely senile. An example of this can
be demonstrated in a random fan we met, whom well call Ty
Cobb. He came up to the four of us, who were wearing baseball jerseys,
and asked us if we played football. We told him that we actually
played baseball, and his eyes lit up as if he had known us forever.
Ty Cobb told us that he once batted .419 in the national tournament.
Whatever the hell the national tournament was we may never know,
but we did attempt to ask him, What national tournament,
and he replied, Oh, the big one. This guy was perhaps
the biggest burnout anyone has ever laid eyes upon, but he proceeded
to tell Eight that hes 40 years old and he could probably
bat twice as good as him.
We approached the front of the line and Mr. Chicago was told he
couldnt take his book bag into the stadium, so he had to walk
clear across the other side of the stadium to check his bag. Naturally,
we couldnt wait any longer to enter the stadium so we left
Mr. Chicago behind and found our seats in the center-field bleachers.
It was at this point that the biggest disappointment of the trip
occurred: the three signs we made in hopes of making an appearance
on the Chicago television station, WGN, were completely useless.
The first sign we made, and the one which we were most proud of,
said Hey Arne, pick up our tab! Arne was the Cubs
cameraman for WGN, and we was famous for never picking up the tab
when going out with friends and Cubs associates. As we proudly raised
our sign which we thought to be clever, the public address announcer
came on the microphone and told everyone in the stadium to bow their
heads in a moment of silence for Arne, who had devoted 35 years
of service the Chicago Cubs. We now looked like complete idiots
and felt pretty bad, but were still mad the guy had to die on us
the day we make it to Wrigley. Our second sign stated, We
drove all the way from Cleveland to escape the DH, but no
one understood it, and a few people actually asked us what it meant.
The third sign was about Cubs first baseman Fred McGriff,
but he didnt even play in the game.
For most of the game, we were rather unaware of what was happening
on the field as the antics of the fans in the bleachers were much
more interesting (whomever is really a Cubs fan must really be a
true fan), and Mr. Chicago located us a few innings into the game.
We had our picture taken with a devout and famous Cubs fan, nicknamed
Ronnie Woo-Woo. This nut dressed in full Cubs attire,
with a complete uniform and everything, and the entire game he yelled,
Cubs, woo! Cubs, woo! He became a little annoying after
awhile, but was nonetheless really entertaining.
As for the game itself, the Cubs lost, as usual, and Sammy Sosa
hit his 64th home run into the left field bleachers. The funniest
thing about Sosas home run was that after he hit it in the
eighth-inning, the Cubs moved within one run of the Pittsburgh Pirates
heading into the ninth. However, a majority of the Cubs fans had
already left, knowing the fate that was in store for them. After
all, its been that way for almost a century.
On our way out of the ballpark, we ran into Ty Cobb again, and he
told us how he stole an autographed ball that Sammy Sosa had thrown
into the bleachers from a little kid, and had proceeded to sell
it back to the kids father for $50. Its touching moments
like these that almost make you cry for the sharing nature of Chicago
Cubs fans. As the bleacher t-shirts say, Wrigley Field bleachers
shut up and drink your beer.
We made it back to our car, and then we gunned it to the heart of
downtown Chicago in hopes that F.A.O. Schwarz, the second most important
part of our trip, was still open. As it turned it out, we made to
the toy store with an hour still to spare, and we indulged ourselves
in three wondrous floors of remote control cars, karaoke machine
and giant Lego fun. Before our hour was up, we had played with virtually
every toy in the store (Mr. Chicago even ventured to the Barbie
collection on the first floor) and purchased a Hum V Base
Control 500 walkie talkie set that cost $10.00 and $39.99
after tax.
The ride home was a long one, considering Mr. Chicago got us lost
again for over an hour on the South Side, but quotes from the movie
The Big Lebowsky from The Dude and remembrances of the trip we had
just taken made it possible to extend our sleepless streak until
we arrived in good old, sweet Oberlin, Ohio. As The Dude dropped
us off in front of North, we told him to take it easy, and to that,
he replied, The Dude abides.
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