Present and Past

Wrigley Field is a true urban ballpark, or was.  It sits smack dab in the middle of a city neighborhood, or what used to be a city neighborhood.  The surrounding area known as Wrigleyville feels more like those new mall developments that try to recreate city life, if only everyone drove a Tesla or Land Rover.  Wrigley has become a variation on Cheers, where everyone looks the same.

Guaranteed Rate Whatever is a mallpark dropped in the middle of a city neighborhood, my neighborhood, or my father’s, actually.  The White Sox will forever be identified with Bridgeport, and that will always leave them with a tint of blue.  I guess that would make the Sox Chicago’s team of color.

The old Bridgeport that I knew from visits with my father to see his mother still exists in pockets.  Houses aren’t sold as much as passed on, and vacancies are filled by word of mouth.  But Irish and Polish Bridgeport has made space for Chinese and Hispanic residents, and millennials, both the hip and the gentrifier.  Motorized rickshaws never used to work their way along 35^th Street.  They do now.  As for all those Divvy ports, I can only imagine what my dad would say.

These were among the observations I had driving to the park yesterday for what had to suffice as our family tradition of going to the last home game of the season; Assistant FBI Director Skinner’s schedule won’t allow it this year.  So, we settled on a Wednesday night game against the Royals, the temperature at game time around 80 degrees.  Did I mention that the Royals hit four homeruns off of Reynaldo Lopez?  They did.

But it’s the small pleasures you come to live for, posing for the family selfie; doing play-by-play with your daughter; honoring your father by eating at the park only because it’s dollar hotdog night.  Clare said she envied the ball boy, who warmed up Eloy Jimenez between innings.  “I’ve got my glove in the car,” sighed the assistant director, “but I don’t think they’ll let me come back in.”  A pity.

We had really good seats, second row from the field, maybe thirty feet back of third base.  Twice foul balls came our way, and both times father and child tried to get one.  Lo and behold, they did, only it was a different dad and kid.  The first time, the man behind us spilled a little of his beer on his son, a boy all of four in a dinosaur tee-shirt.  The second time, dad snared the ball and immediately handed it to his son. 

By the look of wonder on the boy’s face, Christmas had come early, and not even Assistant FBI Director Skinner cared to disagree.