Home Opener

Written By: Other

Posted on May 11, 2007

By: Adam McGrath

Very, very early on the morning of April 9th, Pat McCarthy and his buddy Tim Donahue walked up to the front door of Casey Moran’s, one of the ubiquitous Irish Pubs that populate Wrigleyville. Normally, these two would have been stumbling out the door at this time of day, instead of waiting in line to show their IDs to get in. Today, however, was different. Today was the Cubs Home Opener, and Casey Moran’s was the place to start the day off right, by drinking lots of Bud Light and trying to win tickets to the game from the members of the Q101 Morning Fix, who were doing their first live broadcast ever.

“So far so good,” Pat said to Tim, as they were each handed a complimentary T-shirt for being two of the first 200 Cubs fans through the door at 5:30 a.m. on a Monday morning.

“I guess the weekend continues,” replied Tim, as he searched to see if his favorite bartender was taking this special shift.

The weekends were what these Chicago natives had been living for the past couple years. As they shared a dorm room at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, they now shared a two-bedroom apartment in a mid-rise building on the 1100 block of N. Lasalle St. It was only a couple quick stops on the L down to Harold Washington College, where Tim taught students older than himself how to put a paragraph together. Pat, on the other hand, had an hour-long commute out past O’Hare to the U.S. Cellular Headquarters, where he’d been moving up in the New Acquisitions department.

Both young men had grown up with a passion for the Cubs, groomed by their fathers and uncles to root against the Billy Goat curse and maintain hope that the championship would come to the north side. The sting from the White Sox’ glorious journey to the top two years ago, and the city’s embrace of that feat still lingered in everyone’s minds.

“Ginger Jordan looks pretty good in person,” remarked Tim, as he scoped out the setup of the eclectic group of comedians/disc jockeys from the still nascent morning radio show that was a blend of skits, bits, and legitimate journalism.

“And did you have any idea that Clarissa Jenkins, the traffic girl, was a white guy putting on a black woman’s voice?”

“Holy shit, you’re kidding me! That’s almost as funny as Jim Lynam’s rants about Lance Briggs.”

“Yeah, he’s passionate about his Chicago sports – check him out there in his high school football jersey. He looks like he’s had a rough night.”

“I wonder what McCarthy will say today—probably be something snarky about this being the Cubs’ year.”

And that was the real topic for discussion today, how the Cubs might actually make it back to the playoffs, and not blow it like in ’03. Thankfully, the names Thome and Konerko were the furthest words from the crowd’s lips today. With the acquisition of Soriano, and the return to form of D. Lee, the offense looked like they might be able to put up some runs this year. The two young men chatted about the players to watch, the $300 million spent in the off-season, and whether Dempster would be run out of town if he insisted on blowing every save opportunity thrown his way. Not to mention the new manager of the club, the singular Lou Pinella.

“Maybe he can bring some fire to these guys,” Pat said.

“Well at least we better not see him napping in the dugout.”

The early morning matured as the bar filled up with Cubs fans, an even mix of young, preppy North-siders and rugged die-hard fans sporting their Ryne Sandberg jerseys. The Bud Light flowed, hopes were voiced, Madina Lake played some tunes, and everyone had a good laugh at the jokes of the radio show crew. Every hour they gave away a pair of tickets to the game, but Tim and Pat were not among the lucky winners. They left Casey Moran’s around 11 with nothing more than their novelty T-shirts and a good buzz going. They had already decided to stick around the ballpark even if they couldn’t get into the game, so they made their way over to The Cubby Bear to try to get a seat and some grub. On the short walk over, they passed the massive line outside the gates, filled with buzzing Cubs fans from all walks of life. Even though the team was only 3-3 after their first week on the road, nothing could dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm. They spotted the “Woo-Woo” guy near the front of the line, taking pictures with some small children, while others looked down at their feet, reading the inscriptions on the personalized bricks that were planted in the sidewalk during the off-season.

“This city is full of characters,” Pat said, laughing.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. “Like did you see those two bums on the train this morning?”

“I smelled them more than saw them,” Pat retorted. “Nothing like that stale beer smell and the clinking of 40s at 5 a.m.”

“Yeah, that’s annoying,” Tim said. “It’s not always that bad though. Sometimes they just talk about what soup kitchens are the best or try to get you to buy a Streetwise.”

“Ugh, I hate that. I see copies of that on the ground every day. What a mess.”

“Look how crowded it is. Let’s see if we can squeeze in at the bar,” Tim suggested.

It was a nice afternoon to be at the Cubby Bear, everyone sharing in the collective feeling of hopefulness that washed over Clark and Addison. Three hours later, after the home team managed not to take advantage of two Astros’ errors, and Howry was tagged with the loss, and that little runt Craig Biggio crossed the plate twice, the weekend warriors stumbled back to the Red Line stop.

Pat dropped a couple quarters in the Tribune box and grabbed a paper, quickly flipping by the “Jackson, protesters blast Imus comments” headline to get to the sports section.

“I can’t believe the Sox won today. That bastard Ozzie isn’t even qualified to be a groundskeeper. Well, maybe he is.”

He and Tim squeezed into the packed car, and ending up standing near the door, right below the line map.

Tim glanced quickly up, mentally checking off the 4 stops between them and Clark / Division. It was funny how often, as he got off there, he thought of that Thursday song, “Division St.” His attention was quickly diverted though, by a loud voice coming from the other end of the car.

A blind beggar, a modern antithesis to Tiresias, was calling out to the post-game crowd.

“Please, ladies and gentleman, acknowledge me. I am blind and cannot see you, but you can see me, and can see that I am in need. I only ask for a few coins, a little help so that I can eat.”

Pat briefly removed his eyes from the Trib and scoffed. “I’ve seen this guy on here before; just keeps saying the same spiel. Betcha he isn’t even blind.”

Tim had trouble believing that as he watched people move out of the way of the man’s red and white cane. He stole another look at the line map as the train pulled into Fullerton. The last thing he wanted was for the cane to come scuffling past his feet.

Thankfully, the car was crowded enough that the beggar did not make much progress, and the young men exited underground at their stop, and Tim breathed deeply as he stumbled into the chilly April air. As he turned the key in his apartment door, an odd thought flashed across his mind, something he had never entertained before. Maybe baseball isn’t the only thing that divides Chicago.

Adam McGrath is a Philadelphia native currently residing in Chicago. He has earned an M.A. in Humanities from the University of Chicago (’05) and a dual B.A. from La Salle University in Secondary Education and English (’04). He currently teaches 9th and 10th grade English at St. Rita of Cascia High School in Chicago, and hopes to return to graduate education to pursue an academic interest in Autobiographical Writing.

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