In the past few weeks, I've had momentary twinges of nostalgia for Chicago things. Small things, little spots of experience, really. Wrigley Field is one of the things I've been thinking about lately - which is silly, really seeing as how it's really not the time...
Anyway. Wrigley is one of my absolute favorite Chicago things. The rich ivy, the stretch of skyline framing the bleachers. Peanuts on the floor, ground under shoes, cold beer in hand, eyes riveted. The first night game I ever went to was surreal. I felt like the Ray Kinsella character in Field of Dreams when the huge spotlights are switched on in the middle of the cornfield. That dazed look on his face, you know? I've taken everybody I love or loved to Wrigley Field, with or against their consent. I remember taking my dad to his first American baseball game. The rules and action were vague, I sensed, and initially, little seemed to be happening. "Let's just stay until 'Seventh Inning Stretch,'" I pleaded. He hung in there, and I was delighted when a home run finally occured, and the crowd surged up and we stood as well, though it had been a split second thing, out of sight. Finally, at the seventh inning, everyone sang. "We can leave, now?" He suggested. I grudgingly conceded.
There's this absolute perfection, this quintessential Chicago poetry that happens when you're sitting there, wedged into the seat, teenagers loopy in front of you and tourists in back, and the buzz of the crowd, the beer, and the giddy thumping organ incites you take it all in and then, you see the El, this steel serpentine thing, weaving through the rooftops in the foreground of Chicago's stunning landscape. Stumbling down the ramps at the end of the game, conversational snippets both speculative and vapid abound, but there is one characteristic all Wrigley visitors carry, along with flushed cheeks and loud voices: a huge, toothy grin.
Anyway. Wrigley is one of my absolute favorite Chicago things. The rich ivy, the stretch of skyline framing the bleachers. Peanuts on the floor, ground under shoes, cold beer in hand, eyes riveted. The first night game I ever went to was surreal. I felt like the Ray Kinsella character in Field of Dreams when the huge spotlights are switched on in the middle of the cornfield. That dazed look on his face, you know? I've taken everybody I love or loved to Wrigley Field, with or against their consent. I remember taking my dad to his first American baseball game. The rules and action were vague, I sensed, and initially, little seemed to be happening. "Let's just stay until 'Seventh Inning Stretch,'" I pleaded. He hung in there, and I was delighted when a home run finally occured, and the crowd surged up and we stood as well, though it had been a split second thing, out of sight. Finally, at the seventh inning, everyone sang. "We can leave, now?" He suggested. I grudgingly conceded.
There's this absolute perfection, this quintessential Chicago poetry that happens when you're sitting there, wedged into the seat, teenagers loopy in front of you and tourists in back, and the buzz of the crowd, the beer, and the giddy thumping organ incites you take it all in and then, you see the El, this steel serpentine thing, weaving through the rooftops in the foreground of Chicago's stunning landscape. Stumbling down the ramps at the end of the game, conversational snippets both speculative and vapid abound, but there is one characteristic all Wrigley visitors carry, along with flushed cheeks and loud voices: a huge, toothy grin.
No comments:
Post a Comment