Philles 4 - Cubs 3: Dark Secrets Theater

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Philles 4 - Cubs 3: Dark Secrets Theater

. Wednesday, August 12, 2009



I tried to find a picture of Gregg, but his pitching occasionally throws up a black hole of suck that interferes with modern photographic technology

On that most hallowed of days, Ryne Sandberg Bobblehead Day (WAIW has a childhood idolization thing for Ryno), let it be known that the Cubs lost while only giving up 3 hits. It was one of those nights. Harden looked amazing, Marmol/Gregg looked like douche/bag, and Jeff Baker mysteriously continued to hit. Sure, I could talk about the game some more, but you come here for the snark and the storylines. And the captions. So let's focus on that business, and not on the "givng up a game-losing home run to a marginal player" business.



Look, I could pretend that I'm not going to have a tea party with Ryno, but then I'd just be lying to the both of us

The most important thing here, the thing that makes this post loooooong as hell, is that I achieved catharsis - and released a dark, dark demon. Holy shit, how can you not read on after that?

DARE you hit the jump, intrepid reader?!? SHOCK!!! HORROR!!! OLD-TIMEY AFFECTATIONS!!! Respectable ladies, children, and the elderly are advised to leave the room.



I run this blog and started the Friday Roundtable (catch it!) mostly because I love telling and hearing personal stories about the Cubs. More than any other team, they tie into the fabric of the city. You can't talk about the Cubs without talking about Chicago, and they in turn are one of most identifiable parts of the great city itself. I suppose if I went to one of those fancy-pants East Coast universities, I might have majored in oral history. But instead I went to a state school in the South and got that ever-so-practical English degree.

But the truth, dear readers, is that I've been holding out on you. Even now, I shudder at my keyboard with my coffee (read: Mountain Dew) in the clear light of this August morn. That's because what I have to tell you is this: I met my longtime girlfriend at ... a White Sox game. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!



Your reaction. I am, after all, your Internet hero.

I know, I know. It's shocking. Like most other people in the city, I was compelled to attend a game of that odious franchise. Some people do it for clients (Steve), some do it for love (poor bastards), and some do it because they're criminally insane (White Sox fans). I did it for free beer. Lots and lots of free beer. The summer after I graduated college, I wanted to catch up with a friend of mine before I packed off to Hawaii to work for a few months. She offered all the beer and contempt that I could manfully swallow, and I took her up. Turns out she brought a friend with her, and one pre-game drinking contest later (final count 9-9-8), I was getting to know the friend better. Three years later, that friend and I are drinking together at Wrigley Field for our anniversary.



Love is in the air at U.S. Cellular

The only thing I remember about that White Sox game is how pointedly I tried to keep myself separated from it. And really, I'd say I succeeded. I do recall from the chatter around the place that it was White Sox/A's. The A's were on their way to the ALCS that year, and the White Sox fans were still high on that World Series and the model airplane glue they'd smuggled into the stadium. It was a big game. People were jumping through hoops for tickets. I couldn't really give a shit. The only thing I worried about was not wearing anything black or white. Thanks to Tenenssee orange (think road cone color), I successfully maintained my neutral, disaffected air. I imagine it's how hipsters must feel at every sporting event ever.



Cubs and Sox fans briefly united in deeming these people "extremely punchable"

Anyway, last night, the only good thing to come out of a White Sox game hands me my ticket when she meets me at the Captain Morgan Club. We'd planned the anniversary/bobblehead/Phillies game night for awhile, and she'd been telling me about our tickets in section 231. Nice. Except when we're finding our way to our seats, she's asking all these weird questions. "Wait, which way do we go?" and so on. She's at Wrigley at least as much as (if not more than) I am. Just before I get impatient, I glance down at the ticket to see what the hell is so confusing. The ticket reads Aisle 22, Row 4. Holy shit, she had played me like a Casio CZ-2600S Electric Synthesizer. You know where Aisle 22, Row 4 is? Here:



A happy anniversary indeed - and certainly the best I've ever felt after a loss. I'll always be able to say that when I woke up the morning after my anniversary, my mouth tasted of Wrigley Dogs and Old Style. And that's why I can finally tell the White Sox story.

3 comments:

Jay said...

I knew it! You're the guy in the green shirt and pink hat behind the plate.

John said...

That is offensive, sir! I don't need to stand for these wild accusations!

I did see that guy though. The hat literally says "The Pink Hat Guy." So at least he owns it, I suppose.

KD said...

Awwww...your girlfriend sounds like a great gal, John! :)