Not Your Daddy's Wrigley Field

Really, it’s too bad Leni Riefenstahl wasn’t on hand at Wrigley Field last night to shoot footage for “Triumph of the Will, part II.”  Things are getting a little out of hand with golden jerseys and whatnot.  Someone needs to remind Team Ricketts that they’re merely the flavor of the week, and the bigger they are, the harder they fall, vines and all.

The Tribune did a story the other day on the rising cost of everything Cub.  Right now, so long as they win, nobody outside of us White Sox curmudgeons really cares.  But it is interesting, this tectonic shift in appeal.  The story included a timeline on ticket prices for an undefined “regular ticket,” bleacher or grandstand, either way a nice seat.  In 1962 such a ticket cost 75 cents; in the collapse year of 1969, $1; and as late as 1998, $12.  These various prices harken back to a time when attendance amounted to an impulse buy.

If the team was good, you sat with a lot of other fans; if the Cubbies stunk, so much the better for you to sneak into the good seats after the fifth inning or so.  You went to games when you wanted to; watched home games mostly in the daytime; and never went broke in the process.  The days of becoming a Cubs’ fan in that manner are long gone.

Now, the game is an “event,” with dynamic pricing worthy of a Broadway show (how long until Alexander Hamilton throws out the first pitch or sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”?).  Once upon a time, museums were free, and ballgames cost very little.  Nowadays, museums in Chicago rationalize their admission fees as being no more expensive than a ballgame.  Something’s changed.

Obviously, I prefer the old days, even though they were subsidized by players who were grossly underpaid.  So, nobody’s being cheated in their pay envelope anymore.  But what happens when the Cubs—or Red Sox or Yankees or Dodgers…—stop winning?  Professional sports will do anything to avoid a drop in prices.  In Chicago, the Bears stink, but refuse to drop prices; the Bulls kind of stink, and act like the McCaskeys.  Only the White Sox have bowed to reality in the face of mediocrity.

We live in interesting times, with or without Ms. Riefenstahl.