5.6.01 CHICAGO CUBS vs LOS ANGELES DODGERS
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If I have said next to nothing to this point about the Chicago Cubs fans, it is not for lack of material. Following the game yesterday Rob and I walked over to see pop-punk legends Masters of the Obvious play an in-store at a nearby record shop, after which we celebrated Cinco de Mayo with an unhurried burrito dinner down the street. By the time we got back to the ballpark to catch the train home it was fully four and a half hours after the game had ended. It was dark out. And all around Wrigley the streets were teeming with drunken, hollering, giddy Cubs fans, whole clamoring packs of them, spilling out of bars and into intersections, not wanting the day to end.
The grief I took throughout the course of the weekend for being a cap-wearing Dodger fan at Wrigley Field was as good-natured as it was plentiful, whether from bleacher bums—the twixt-inning “Dodgers suck!” chant today, punctuated at one point by some grinning wag yelling in my direction, “Hey, we’re talking to you!” (I just smiled and shrugged: what?)—or the ushers themselves—the lady on Friday, floppy hat day, who looked at me taking pictures during BP and asked, “Didn’t some nice person give you a hat with a pretty red C on it?” Of course, considering that the Dodgers were getting swept at Wrigley for the first time in 29 years, it would’ve taken a truly frightening level of malice for someone not to have been good-natured about it.
Then there’s the whole Sammy thing. We sat in the bleachers today, and made sure to get to the park early enough to secure a prime spot in right field. Having seen it up close now, I gotta say, I am hard pressed to name another athlete, in any sport, who has something like the relationship that Sammy Sosa has with his public. You’re might be aware of the ritual. Any time an out is made, Sosa first turns to Damon Buford in center field, dips his head, taps his chest twice with his fist, and holds out his fist displaying the number of outs. Then he turns to the crowd and repeats the sequence. Not so we know how many outs there are; rather, so we know that he knows how many outs there are. Not taking any chances, every few minutes someone will yell from the bleachers, “Sammy, how many we got?” and Sosa, eyes-forward, body coiled as he awaits the next pitch, will without missing a beat hold out his right hand with index finger, or index finger and pinky, as the case may be, extended. It is hilarious, and wonderful, and impossible to resist.
The best moment, though, is much more subtle. Every so often, if there’s an extended period of quiet behind him, a minute or two gone by without anyone shouting to him, Sosa will ever so slightly turn his head toward center, cast a sidelong glance at his audience, and grin. As if to say, “Just checking….” There’s a quiet joy in this gesture that suggests, to me anyway, that the guy really is as happy to be out there as he would have you believe. He’s as happy as you would be, in other words. Which is nice.
Eric Gagne gave up just one hit in seven innings today. In fact, of the seven innings he pitched, six of them were perfect. Which made it all the more unfortunate that the demon transmogrification spell that had turned the Los Angeles Dodgers infield into that of the Rochester Red Wings a day earlier had not yet worn off. A Jeff Reboulet error led to a Cubs run in the fourth, and, with the Dodgers holding on to a 2–1 lead in the eighth, another bungled play by Alex Cora set up Eric Young’s run-scoring sacrifice fly.
Matt Herges came on to face the Cubs in the bottom of the ninth, gave up a lead-off double to Rondell White, and then put Sosa aboard with an intentional walk. What followed was one of the ugliest plays I’ve seen all season, which is kind of saying a lot when you consider all the Red Wings games I’ve been to. Todd Hundley hit a looper to shallow left, which Gary Sheffield, charging, had a play on. As he came in, though, Sheffield seemed to wonder if it would really be a good idea to make a diving catch, or whether, what with the runner tagging at second and all, he shouldn’t just let it drop, grab it on the hop, and fire it to third.
Unfortunately, while he was considering all this the ball was rapidly falling to earth, and by the time he reached it he hadn’t really made up his mind, wasn’t in position to make either play, realized he was pretty much fucked and the run was going to score either way, and pulled up lamely as the ball went bouncing off his shin and into center. Ugh.
FINAL SCORE: CUBS 3, DODGERS 2
FOOD CONSUMED: A hot dog, some peanuts, a couple Old Styles. One of the best things about Wrigley is that you can get all the above without leaving your seat. This also means that if you get tired of waiting for the hot dog, or peanuts, or beer guy to come around, you can go to a concession stand and get ’em yourself and be back in your seat inside of two minutes, because there aren’t any lines. I know it’s a stupid question, but why can’t every ballpark be Wrigley Field?