Deep in Enemy Territory

Deep in Enemy Territory

I spent much of Saturday driving to and from Wrigley Field, twice no less, but at least it was for a good cause, that being my daughter’s bachelorette party.  Clare decided to hold it in the bleachers during game two of this year’s so-called Crosstown Classic.  Long story short—bad weather  good company.

No, I wasn’t invited, and I didn’t have a ticket to yet another drubbing of the “rebuilding” White Sox.  My job was to deliver my wife to the Friendly Confines to join in the festivities; Clare thought it would be fun to have both her mother and future mother-in-law join the celebrants.  Who could know there’d be a nearly two-hour rain delay?  At least no one with the last name of “Bukowski” made a drunken fool of herself waiting for the game to start.

Professional baseball started off as so many green fields shoehorned into urban neighborhoods, where people walked or took public transit to the game.  Wrigley is that field with a vengeance, so much green surrounded by so much brick and glass (meant to generate a different green altogether).  There isn’t a hint of an adjacent parking lot, just barkers every block or so along Addison Street with signs that say “Parking” for $30 or $40 or more.

You drive to Wrigley Field, you either park miles away and take a shuttle or you give in to those bandits with their signs.  The smart thing to do is take the “L” or, as Michele did, have someone drive you; that’s the straw I drew.  I dropped off my charge at the corner of Clark and Addison, where she could join with others of the few, the proud, the so-far-from-the-South-Side Sox fans.

The comparison between Wrigley and Guaranteed Rate Whatever is painful, a true national landmark vs. an urban mall.  To be fair, Comiskey Park never sat cheek-by-jowl with its neighbors; photos from the 1930s show cars filling up lots on two sides of the park.  For some reason, the surrounding Bridgeport and Armour Square neighborhoods never developed up to the entrances of Comiskey Park.  But it didn’t really matter.

That beautiful, symmetrical brick edifice dominated its site like a temple or church.  Had Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf possessed an ounce of vision, he would have developed the surrounding real estate for a renovated Comiskey Park the way the Cubs have done under the Ricketts’ family.  But No, Reindorf tore down a landmark for a big box and wonders why his team can never draw like they do on the North Side.  Oh, well.

My daughter and her friends all had a good time.  There are some people in this world who can pull off going to a ballgame while wearing a sash that announces her impending nuptials; Clare happens to be one of them.  Despite the score (8-4, bad guys), she was happy, which is all a father can ask for.