It'll remind you why you're so grateful that you live in the south, where Memorial Day weekend's forecast doesn't include anything under 60.
Rachel and I just got back from a short vacation in Iowa to visit some friends from seminary. We had a difficult decision to make, though. Milwaukee, Chicago and Minneapolis are all four hours from Manchester, Iowa. Those are the closest, most affordable airports to fly into, and they all hold major league baseball teams. I was busy trying to decide what stadium to attend, while Rachel was busy telling me that she wasn't exactly concerned about which city we flew into, as long as the plane didn't crash. (She's the one that has her priorities in order. Me, not so much) Eventually, I settled on Chicago, knowing that Wrigley Field was supposed to be a memorable experience. It certainly was.
Our flight into Chicago was delayed by about four hours. We were surprised that they announced it as a mechanical problem, since Chicago was supposed to have severe thunderstorms all afternoon. I assume that the 'mechanical' problem was that the planes mechanics didn't match up well with lightning. We didn't mind, though, since they gave us food vouchers which were subsequently traded for Ben & Jerry's smoothies. My patience can be bought. Apparently, $6 is the price.
We finally arrived, caught the train, and made it to our hotel, a surprisingly wonderful Comfort Inn, a block from the subway station. We were waiting in the lobby behind a charming woman who spent the majority of her time checking in staring at me as though I had arrived in Chicago from another planet. She finally worked up the courage to ask where I was from.
"Chattanooga."
"Tennessee?" She spat the word out as though it were covered in arsenic. Clearly, she placed Tennessee in the same category as such charming things as month-old milk and cat vomit. At this point it became clear to me that she would not be inviting us to join her for dinner. She finally turned her back to me and muttered, without prompt, "I'm from Manhattan." I think I was supposed to feel something other than disdain for her at that moment, but, if so, I failed in my big moment. Obviously, she's never heard of the Towing and Recovery Hall of Fame.
Anyway, Rachel and I managed to have a lovely dinner at the Weber Grill, where everything is cooked over charcoal, and made it to Wrigley Field in the top of the first inning. We had great seats down the left field line, and we were just happy to be in Chicago, considering that we hadn't even expected our flight to leave Atlanta at all.
I'd love to wax poetically about the charm of Wrigley Field, and tell you that it is baseball at its finest. I'd love to be able to say that the rise and fall of the crowd's emotions made watching a baseball game an epiphany. Unfortunately, I can't. I will say it was great to be there, and I'm glad we went. It was neat to see the ivy on the walls, and there was something special, something unique, about being in a historic ballpark, where character abounds. It's a special place, and if you're in Chicago, it's worth the trip. However, I would advise against going when it's fifty degrees and windy. It changes the experience, and the stadium is half-empty.
Also, the Mets and Cubs are both terrible, terrible baseball teams this year. One Cubs' relief pitcher came in to the game, walked three straight batters without throwing a strike, and was promptly removed from the game. If professional sports had mercy rules, both teams would be excused to go play on the beach for the remainder of the season. Instead, we watched 6 innings of bad baseball (which is far better than no baseball) until it began to rain, when we decided that 6 innings of Wrigley Field were just as good as 9, and we hightailed it back to the warmth of our hotel, where I took a bath just to warm up.
It was an interesting first day in Chicago, and considering that my other Chicago experiences included getting stranded at O-Hare airport and watching people yell at each other about affirmative action, it was a big step up from what I had known Chicago for. Wrigley Field was so different than other baseball stadiums I've been to, and I would have loved to have sat back and enjoyed a cold beer, but the cheapskate within me wrestled with paying $7 for a beer on a night where the beer stayed cold because the weather was so cold. Perhaps some day I'll be back in Chicago on a warm summer eve, and then Wrigley will contain the magic it is said to have. Perhaps. Until then, I'll remember a rainy night with my wonderful wife in a new city watching a beloved sport, and I'll give thanks for how blessed I am.
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