7 years ago I was destroyed, heartbroken, lost. I thought I'd never smile again. Nothing helped. I turned to baseball, which was a therapy and tonic line none I'd imagined.
Now I sit here at Wrigley, broken again, no joy, lost. It's so different now, of course. I'm sitting on a bench in Gallagher Way, which was probably not even in anyone's imagination in 2012. Players walked by me and i didn't care.
But i still feel it a little, that undercurrent of peace i often feel at baseball games, the thing that whispers to my doubting heart that i will smile again, that I will heal, that someday this will be a tough and beautiful memory. Baseball reminds me that i will survive.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Who am I anymore?
My life motto can best be summed up by this clip from "Fever Pitch." But lately, I admit, I am spending less time at the fields of my dreams.
I have heard a lot of questions since the season started about my lower participation in baseball shenanigans. I guess it is very different. It is almost June, and I have yet to visit my beloved Wrigley or my also loved Miller Park. The only White Sox games I've been to have been Twins games, and I even skipped one of them this year. I am not getting autographs. I haven't even looked at my stack of cards and I haven't bought anything to get signed in a while.
Let's go back 5 years to 2012, when Angela and I basically lived at Wrigley. That was a glorious time. I gotta say, that summer is still the best summer of my life. I was actively meeting players, hanging out with them, meeting their families. It was surreal. I had more autographs than I knew what to do with of players more talented than I understood at the time. Angela and I made friends that year that continue to be our friends today.
But the thrill of autographs is almost gone. Chicago autograph hounds are basically the worst ones in the world. And I am only saying that because of all the stadiums I have been to, only Milwaukee graphers are more annoying. Players have told me it is worse here than anywhere else. So I admit that I feel like a doofus standing there, an adult, asking another adult to sign a baseball card. I've gotten most of the big names. Now, unless it's someone I really like, I just feel meh about it.
Do I love baseball less now? Not even close. I love it more than ever. I believe in its healing powers and beauty and majesty. But I admit it feels different. I don't really want to go to a Cubs game. I think about the traffic, the parking, the expense of the ticket, how crowded it is now--and mostly the fact that I would be going alone. I don't want to spend a lot of money to sit by strangers when I could hang out with people I enjoy. Plus, the Cubs have won their championship. It felt good and I was proud. But now EVERYONE is a Cubs fan, and it feels cheap. Not the tickets. Just the feeling.
I love going to Sox games--it's close to home, easy to get to, cheap, comfortable, and I always have someone to spend time with there, as my friend Laura and her mom have season tickets and literally never miss a game, for almost 700 games now. But it's harder and harder to get time off work, and other responsibilities and hobbies and people have taken up extra time, so my baseball time is limited.
I work in Adult Protective Services and run the Will County, IL, branch. We investigate allegations of abuse of adults 60 and older and all adults with disabilities. It sounds fancy, but really, it's a lot of hard work, generally 60+ hours a week of paperwork and signing off on forms, and now, with the influx of abuse cases, I am carrying a small caseload myself. If I take off work, someone might continue to get abused. Someone might die. So I have a hard time using days off when we are so busy. It's hard to even leave early, even knowing my hours are way overboard. I have never excelled at a work/life balance, although the last couple years I was doing much better at the life part. Now I just think of all the extra work it will create if I am gone, of the additional burden on staff if I am gone. So I generally stay. This Friday I had planned to leave work early to hit the Sox double-header, but we have a budget crunch I need to attempt to resolve, so I will probably be here.
Church isn't really an issue. I go to a church that has a Saturday evening service and three Sunday services. But now Sundays I enjoy visiting shut-ins at the nursing homes with my mom. They look forward to our visit, as I look forward to seeing them. It's hard to explain--they aren't my grandparents. But I really adore them. I also know we are the only visitors most of them ever have. How can I skip that for the six months of the baseball season?
And then there is my boyfriend. He doesn't like baseball really at all, so he has no interest in going to games. And even though I am fine spending time apart from him, weekends are my only times to see him, as we work opposite schedules during the week. Saturday day games are easy--he is usually shooting at the range or at a gun show--but Saturday night games, when he is free, I have a hard time choosing baseball. One night I was on my way to Sox Park, and he called, wanting to go for a motorcycle ride, and I went to his house instead, because that sounded more fun.
More fun. What could be more fun than baseball? Not much, but hanging out with someone who I am quite smitten with and who enjoys me sounds wonderful. I do wish he loved, or even liked baseball, but he doesn't. So I am stuck choosing. And often, I will choose him. Just as I now choose family events I used to skip, and HIS family events. I feel like I am living a more balanced life, getting more sleep, eating more healthy, etc.
This is the biggest difference: In 2012, I needed baseball. I couldn't breathe without it. It kept me alive when I wanted to die and it gave me something to look forward to. I'd lost my beloved job and most of my friends. I had to move back home to Indiana. But I could always count on baseball to carry me. And now...well, I just don't need it anymore. I'm healed from the hurt of that horrible time in my life and baseball gets all the credit. But I loved it before 2012 and I still love it, the way you love an old friend that you don't get to see much anymore. When we reunite, it's as if no time has passed and I feel so comfy and at home. But I can also walk away and feel okay about it.
This is the new me. It's weird. Don't hate me.
I have heard a lot of questions since the season started about my lower participation in baseball shenanigans. I guess it is very different. It is almost June, and I have yet to visit my beloved Wrigley or my also loved Miller Park. The only White Sox games I've been to have been Twins games, and I even skipped one of them this year. I am not getting autographs. I haven't even looked at my stack of cards and I haven't bought anything to get signed in a while.
Let's go back 5 years to 2012, when Angela and I basically lived at Wrigley. That was a glorious time. I gotta say, that summer is still the best summer of my life. I was actively meeting players, hanging out with them, meeting their families. It was surreal. I had more autographs than I knew what to do with of players more talented than I understood at the time. Angela and I made friends that year that continue to be our friends today.
But the thrill of autographs is almost gone. Chicago autograph hounds are basically the worst ones in the world. And I am only saying that because of all the stadiums I have been to, only Milwaukee graphers are more annoying. Players have told me it is worse here than anywhere else. So I admit that I feel like a doofus standing there, an adult, asking another adult to sign a baseball card. I've gotten most of the big names. Now, unless it's someone I really like, I just feel meh about it.
Do I love baseball less now? Not even close. I love it more than ever. I believe in its healing powers and beauty and majesty. But I admit it feels different. I don't really want to go to a Cubs game. I think about the traffic, the parking, the expense of the ticket, how crowded it is now--and mostly the fact that I would be going alone. I don't want to spend a lot of money to sit by strangers when I could hang out with people I enjoy. Plus, the Cubs have won their championship. It felt good and I was proud. But now EVERYONE is a Cubs fan, and it feels cheap. Not the tickets. Just the feeling.
I love going to Sox games--it's close to home, easy to get to, cheap, comfortable, and I always have someone to spend time with there, as my friend Laura and her mom have season tickets and literally never miss a game, for almost 700 games now. But it's harder and harder to get time off work, and other responsibilities and hobbies and people have taken up extra time, so my baseball time is limited.
I work in Adult Protective Services and run the Will County, IL, branch. We investigate allegations of abuse of adults 60 and older and all adults with disabilities. It sounds fancy, but really, it's a lot of hard work, generally 60+ hours a week of paperwork and signing off on forms, and now, with the influx of abuse cases, I am carrying a small caseload myself. If I take off work, someone might continue to get abused. Someone might die. So I have a hard time using days off when we are so busy. It's hard to even leave early, even knowing my hours are way overboard. I have never excelled at a work/life balance, although the last couple years I was doing much better at the life part. Now I just think of all the extra work it will create if I am gone, of the additional burden on staff if I am gone. So I generally stay. This Friday I had planned to leave work early to hit the Sox double-header, but we have a budget crunch I need to attempt to resolve, so I will probably be here.
Church isn't really an issue. I go to a church that has a Saturday evening service and three Sunday services. But now Sundays I enjoy visiting shut-ins at the nursing homes with my mom. They look forward to our visit, as I look forward to seeing them. It's hard to explain--they aren't my grandparents. But I really adore them. I also know we are the only visitors most of them ever have. How can I skip that for the six months of the baseball season?
And then there is my boyfriend. He doesn't like baseball really at all, so he has no interest in going to games. And even though I am fine spending time apart from him, weekends are my only times to see him, as we work opposite schedules during the week. Saturday day games are easy--he is usually shooting at the range or at a gun show--but Saturday night games, when he is free, I have a hard time choosing baseball. One night I was on my way to Sox Park, and he called, wanting to go for a motorcycle ride, and I went to his house instead, because that sounded more fun.
More fun. What could be more fun than baseball? Not much, but hanging out with someone who I am quite smitten with and who enjoys me sounds wonderful. I do wish he loved, or even liked baseball, but he doesn't. So I am stuck choosing. And often, I will choose him. Just as I now choose family events I used to skip, and HIS family events. I feel like I am living a more balanced life, getting more sleep, eating more healthy, etc.
This is the biggest difference: In 2012, I needed baseball. I couldn't breathe without it. It kept me alive when I wanted to die and it gave me something to look forward to. I'd lost my beloved job and most of my friends. I had to move back home to Indiana. But I could always count on baseball to carry me. And now...well, I just don't need it anymore. I'm healed from the hurt of that horrible time in my life and baseball gets all the credit. But I loved it before 2012 and I still love it, the way you love an old friend that you don't get to see much anymore. When we reunite, it's as if no time has passed and I feel so comfy and at home. But I can also walk away and feel okay about it.
This is the new me. It's weird. Don't hate me.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Phil Ferneding, my favorite Mets fan
Life is short, as I have been reminded this past week. Early in the week, a parent of a former student died suddenly (David Pohlmeier's obituary may be read here). Then my brother's mother-in-law tragically died at the age of 55. And then almost immediately after, I found that my dear friend Phil had died. He was 39.
Every morning, I received at least one Snapchat from Phil. Generally, these were creative good morning snaps, and often we snapped conversations back and forth. I can't believe that is over. He loved the Mets, the Cowboys, and, inexplicably, Drew Barrymore.
Phil was my age. We attended Pillsbury College together in the 90s. We acted in many plays together, including traveling together across the country on the Pillsbury Players Drama Team. He is pictured below, the man on the right bottom.
You can get to know someone pretty well when you're trapped in a van with someone for ten days and every Sunday. I guess he happened upon acting kind of by chance--we were always trying to recruit men for plays, and Phil was the kind of person who, when asked if he wanted to do something, pretty much always said yes. But Phil was a natural. He commanded attention the moment he came on stage. His acting wasn't even that great, but his presence more than made up for that. Sometimes the crowd roared in laughter at a simple gesture or facial expression. I cast him in Pygmalion, my senior project, as Eliza Doolittle's father, and he was such a natural at playing the carefree, selfish, charming Cockney father to my Eliza. He is pictured below, top row, third from the left.
His most famous stage turn was in Arsenic and Old Lace as Teddy, the man who believes he is Teddy Roosevelt. No one was funnier on that stage. Ever. It was a physically demanding role, as well as a role that demanded a great deal of physical humor. But Phil was up to the task. People continued to talk about that play, and particularly his role, for years and years to come (he is pictured below in the green shirt).
Phil Ferneding Do you all remember the glasses and plates breaking on the opening scene of the play for faculty check, and how literally everything in the play came together at the last second. And if I ever build a cellar door for someone, I'll make sure they can fit through it, carrying a body comfortably through the door, and poor Nikki...I dropped that girl on her head so many times, but she had that incident at the Johnson's trampoline (along with Tara) and had that brace or something on her leg."
I have hundreds of photos of him in my storage unit, and what I'd really like is to find those pictures and share them with all of you, but of course my key is missing, so instead I will paint you a picture of Phil Ferneding with my words as best as I can.
If you asked me how to describe Phil in 3 words, I would choose heartwarming, hilarious, and human (sticking with our mutual Baptist roots with my organization style).
Heartwarming
Phil had a way of sneaking up on you with kindness. After a talk with Phil, you just felt better. You felt like you could deal with whatever it was, and you knew he actually cared. But Phil never forgot what you were struggling with, and he always asked about it, even long after the talk. He was a great listener, someone who rarely gave advice, but instead gave hope. He believed in you. If you were Phil's friend, and pretty much everyone was, you knew you had someone on your side for life. He had this very Phil gesture of slowly putting his hand on your shoulder, saying, "Well," in that slightly Southern, Terre Haute accent, pausing, and then speaking whatever it was he needed to say, and I see him now doing it, pointing to himself and speaking to someone, his bald head shining and his eyes locked on the listener. He was kind and sensitive and larger than life in much more than the physical sense. You felt warmer and safer in his presence. You felt welcome, and Phil never met a stranger.
When my dad was sick a few years back, he sent me this message:
Phil Ferneding
That is just one example of his kindness and thoughtfulness. The list of acts like that is endless.
Humorous
Phil would do anything for a laugh. A lot of his humor was self-deprecating, but you also knew he sincerely enjoyed life. He loved the Mets, and his roommate John is a Cubs fan, and of course I am, too, so in 2015 when the Cubs lost to the Mets, he never let me forget it. His Snaps and Facebook posts were unflattering posts of John's disappointment and Phil's happiness. This year, when the Mets were toast and the Cubs were going strong, his snaps were unflattering posts about John's and my happiness. He had a slow, convoluted way of explaining things, again, with that accent of his, that had me in stitches. There were countless legends in the men's dorm about things Phil would do for a laugh. I used to tell stories about him to my students to the point where they all knew who he was and were determined to fix us up. He was quick with one-liners, and if you made a mistake around him, that was good for a year's worth of jokes at least. We both loved The Office, the Walking Dead, and Parks and Recreation, and made references to the shows regularly. We would often have running Walking Dead conversations while the show aired, and he always cut the tension of the show with his humor. For instance:
And he also had a criminally underused youtube channel that showcased his humor. You can see him heckling Peyton Manning here. He didn't mince words and had zero tact, but not to be mean--it was spontaneous and natural (see "human," below). For instance, the first time my former boyfriend saw me, he went upstairs in his dorm and said, "I've just met the most beautiful woman." Phil asked who it was. When he found out it was me who was described that way, he was incredulous and asked, "Are you sure it was Alex? Did she switch name tags with someone or something?" And I know this conversation really happened, because Phil is the one who told me about it.
Human
This might sound like a weird way to describe someone, but it is so perfect for Phil. He was just a regular guy. He couldn't pay tuition and had to drop out of college for a while. He always spilled food on himself (I called him Spill Ferneding for a while). He made mistakes. He had a potty mouth. He got sad. He got angry. He had health issues and he was scared. You could always tell Phil the truth about your life because you knew he would never judge you. It was so refreshing to know that in the almost-20 years that I knew him, we could talk any time about anything, no matter the physical distance, no matter how long since we'd last talked. Maybe this is the quality that made us all love him so very much. We knew he would love us back. We knew he would accept us. We knew he would always be there. Until the day that he couldn't be there anymore.
Since his death, I have seen dozens of posts all saying the same thing, that Phil was always there for them and that he was so friendly and so funny and so kind. I am still trying to compute that phabulousphil77 will not be opening any of the snaps I sent, that I will never see his face on my phone in the morning, that we will never be able to talk about rotten television again. I think of his mother, of his best friend John, of all of the people who have felt this lost like a kick to the gut and are trying to breathe normally again.
I don't know what heaven is like exactly, but I know he is there, and I am so thankful for the promise that heaven brings, that we can have hope at all times because our faith is in Christ. I don't know if Phil is in heaven with his hand on someone's shoulder, telling them about his friends, but I can picture it. I can picture him, healed and whole and happy. I have peace knowing he is at peace.
Dearest Phil, I will miss you forever and remember you often with fondness. You are always in my heart.
Phil Ferneding "I'm not ashamed to say that this was the first time I've ever worn makeup, and I'd gladly do it again...I say, if Kerux is ever sold, or ready to be torn down, we reuinite the whole cast for one dynamic reunion and one final show, to officially give it the send off it deserves (hoping that never actually happens, of course). I'm sure my lines are still but there somewhere, and I can probably still run up the stairs...so let's go for it!!!"
Every morning, I received at least one Snapchat from Phil. Generally, these were creative good morning snaps, and often we snapped conversations back and forth. I can't believe that is over. He loved the Mets, the Cowboys, and, inexplicably, Drew Barrymore.
Phil was my age. We attended Pillsbury College together in the 90s. We acted in many plays together, including traveling together across the country on the Pillsbury Players Drama Team. He is pictured below, the man on the right bottom.
You can get to know someone pretty well when you're trapped in a van with someone for ten days and every Sunday. I guess he happened upon acting kind of by chance--we were always trying to recruit men for plays, and Phil was the kind of person who, when asked if he wanted to do something, pretty much always said yes. But Phil was a natural. He commanded attention the moment he came on stage. His acting wasn't even that great, but his presence more than made up for that. Sometimes the crowd roared in laughter at a simple gesture or facial expression. I cast him in Pygmalion, my senior project, as Eliza Doolittle's father, and he was such a natural at playing the carefree, selfish, charming Cockney father to my Eliza. He is pictured below, top row, third from the left.
His most famous stage turn was in Arsenic and Old Lace as Teddy, the man who believes he is Teddy Roosevelt. No one was funnier on that stage. Ever. It was a physically demanding role, as well as a role that demanded a great deal of physical humor. But Phil was up to the task. People continued to talk about that play, and particularly his role, for years and years to come (he is pictured below in the green shirt).
Phil Ferneding Do you all remember the glasses and plates breaking on the opening scene of the play for faculty check, and how literally everything in the play came together at the last second. And if I ever build a cellar door for someone, I'll make sure they can fit through it, carrying a body comfortably through the door, and poor Nikki...I dropped that girl on her head so many times, but she had that incident at the Johnson's trampoline (along with Tara) and had that brace or something on her leg."
I have hundreds of photos of him in my storage unit, and what I'd really like is to find those pictures and share them with all of you, but of course my key is missing, so instead I will paint you a picture of Phil Ferneding with my words as best as I can.
If you asked me how to describe Phil in 3 words, I would choose heartwarming, hilarious, and human (sticking with our mutual Baptist roots with my organization style).
Heartwarming
Phil had a way of sneaking up on you with kindness. After a talk with Phil, you just felt better. You felt like you could deal with whatever it was, and you knew he actually cared. But Phil never forgot what you were struggling with, and he always asked about it, even long after the talk. He was a great listener, someone who rarely gave advice, but instead gave hope. He believed in you. If you were Phil's friend, and pretty much everyone was, you knew you had someone on your side for life. He had this very Phil gesture of slowly putting his hand on your shoulder, saying, "Well," in that slightly Southern, Terre Haute accent, pausing, and then speaking whatever it was he needed to say, and I see him now doing it, pointing to himself and speaking to someone, his bald head shining and his eyes locked on the listener. He was kind and sensitive and larger than life in much more than the physical sense. You felt warmer and safer in his presence. You felt welcome, and Phil never met a stranger.
When my dad was sick a few years back, he sent me this message:
Phil Ferneding
Hey, Alex. I've been reading your posts regarding your dad and his failing health, it's brought many memories of my own father's death back in '04. You've got a great opportunity to share the things with him you need to. I know you'd said in one post, that there had been some issues in the past and while it may be painful and difficult to say some things to him, I'd encourage you to say them. I know he's not always lucid and he may not be able to articulate to you what you'd like to hear, saying the words will do wonders for your own sanity and well being. I'm very sorry that you have to go through something like this, but you've proven to be a strong and mature woman and you'll get through this and be better for it in the end. You'll be in my thoughts in the upcoming days, but I just wanted to send you my advice and some words of encouragement. Take care of yourself, Alex. It's a great comfort to know that you've got so many friends around the world pulling for you in this time of tragedy. Hang in there.
That is just one example of his kindness and thoughtfulness. The list of acts like that is endless.
Humorous
Phil would do anything for a laugh. A lot of his humor was self-deprecating, but you also knew he sincerely enjoyed life. He loved the Mets, and his roommate John is a Cubs fan, and of course I am, too, so in 2015 when the Cubs lost to the Mets, he never let me forget it. His Snaps and Facebook posts were unflattering posts of John's disappointment and Phil's happiness. This year, when the Mets were toast and the Cubs were going strong, his snaps were unflattering posts about John's and my happiness. He had a slow, convoluted way of explaining things, again, with that accent of his, that had me in stitches. There were countless legends in the men's dorm about things Phil would do for a laugh. I used to tell stories about him to my students to the point where they all knew who he was and were determined to fix us up. He was quick with one-liners, and if you made a mistake around him, that was good for a year's worth of jokes at least. We both loved The Office, the Walking Dead, and Parks and Recreation, and made references to the shows regularly. We would often have running Walking Dead conversations while the show aired, and he always cut the tension of the show with his humor. For instance:
- February 14, 2016
And he also had a criminally underused youtube channel that showcased his humor. You can see him heckling Peyton Manning here. He didn't mince words and had zero tact, but not to be mean--it was spontaneous and natural (see "human," below). For instance, the first time my former boyfriend saw me, he went upstairs in his dorm and said, "I've just met the most beautiful woman." Phil asked who it was. When he found out it was me who was described that way, he was incredulous and asked, "Are you sure it was Alex? Did she switch name tags with someone or something?" And I know this conversation really happened, because Phil is the one who told me about it.
Human
This might sound like a weird way to describe someone, but it is so perfect for Phil. He was just a regular guy. He couldn't pay tuition and had to drop out of college for a while. He always spilled food on himself (I called him Spill Ferneding for a while). He made mistakes. He had a potty mouth. He got sad. He got angry. He had health issues and he was scared. You could always tell Phil the truth about your life because you knew he would never judge you. It was so refreshing to know that in the almost-20 years that I knew him, we could talk any time about anything, no matter the physical distance, no matter how long since we'd last talked. Maybe this is the quality that made us all love him so very much. We knew he would love us back. We knew he would accept us. We knew he would always be there. Until the day that he couldn't be there anymore.
Since his death, I have seen dozens of posts all saying the same thing, that Phil was always there for them and that he was so friendly and so funny and so kind. I am still trying to compute that phabulousphil77 will not be opening any of the snaps I sent, that I will never see his face on my phone in the morning, that we will never be able to talk about rotten television again. I think of his mother, of his best friend John, of all of the people who have felt this lost like a kick to the gut and are trying to breathe normally again.
I don't know what heaven is like exactly, but I know he is there, and I am so thankful for the promise that heaven brings, that we can have hope at all times because our faith is in Christ. I don't know if Phil is in heaven with his hand on someone's shoulder, telling them about his friends, but I can picture it. I can picture him, healed and whole and happy. I have peace knowing he is at peace.
Dearest Phil, I will miss you forever and remember you often with fondness. You are always in my heart.
Phil Ferneding "I'm not ashamed to say that this was the first time I've ever worn makeup, and I'd gladly do it again...I say, if Kerux is ever sold, or ready to be torn down, we reuinite the whole cast for one dynamic reunion and one final show, to officially give it the send off it deserves (hoping that never actually happens, of course). I'm sure my lines are still but there somewhere, and I can probably still run up the stairs...so let's go for it!!!"
Monday, July 25, 2016
Why I Can't Support the Cubs and Aroldis Chapman
I'm sad today. Really, heartbreakingly sad. I am actually crying.
My love for the Cubs is as much a part of my identity as my eye color. It's shaped my personality. It's where I've met many of my friends and why I have any twitter followers at all. Everyone knows I love baseball, but that I REALLY love Cubs baseball.
And today, I will lose that part of me.
Aroldis Chapman is the fastest-throwing pitcher in baseball, and maybe ever. He's incredible to watch. Last year at Wrigley, when he was pitching for the Reds against us, everyone, including me, checked the MPH after every pitch, oohing and ahhing as the numbers climbed over 100 MPH.
Shortly before spring training this year, Aroldis Chapman's girlfriend placed a 911 call. According to her report, Chapman choked her. She escaped and hid in some bushes in her yard, and in anger, Chapman fired eight shots into the garage wall. You can read about it here.
Later, she recanted the story in a couple different ways, but both she and Chapman admitted that he had lain hands on her. And, anyway, the bullet holes were still there.
In a brave and bold move by MLB, and in accordance to their new anti-domestic violence policy, Chapman was suspended for 30 games, despite the fact that criminal charges were not filed. He accepted the suspension and said he had executed poor judgment by shooting his gun, but that he had done nothing wrong to his girlfriend. You can read about it here.
(See above where he admitted that he had lain hands on her.)
So, after his 30-game vacation, he came back to the Yankees, and the Cubs just acquired him in a trade for several prospects. The Cubs and Chapman released a statement saying that they had a stern talk with Chapman and told him he had to be a good boy if he was a Cub. He said he would. They feel that he will be fine. Chapman said he already dealt with it and is working on his relationship and doesn't want to talk about it. You can read the pathetic statements here.
I could have taken a meaningless, "I'm sorry I did this, but---", because at least that would be SOMETHING. But in all of Chapman's statements, he has made it clear that he has done nothing wrong to his girlfriend. I would even take a pathetic, obviously PR-driven move of his making a donation to a DV shelter or something, because that would at least say, "Well, I didn't do anything, but I hope I can help people when something DOES happen." But he is through talking about it. It didn't happen.
I get that this may not matter to you. I get that you may have never stood between one of your best friends and her husband as he swung his fists, and then watched her go back to him a few days later because she just knew he would never do it again. I get that you may have never looked into the empty eyes of a survivor of domestic violence who has convinced herself that she doesn't deserve any better than the backhand of her partner.
I can't share most of what I have seen of the domestic violence world because of client-counselor confidentiality. But here's what I will share--some statistics here. And some here. My favorite stat is that only 25% of assaults are reported to the police. The cases that actually go to court are lower. The cases with conviction are even lower.
It would be easy to say the girlfriend was lying, that this is all about money, that who cares what he does off the field when he throws so darn hard on the field. It would be easy to stay a Cubs fan, because for the first time in FOREVER, it actually IS easy to be a Cubs fan. They're winning and making history and being overall adorable. I named my cats after Rizzo and Bryant, for Pete's sake. If you know me at all, you know that my love for the Cubs surpasses almost everything, and that I would never speak ill of them unless I felt it was important to do so.
We all have causes close to our hearts because of our personal experiences, jobs, ethnicity, etc. This is a cause close to mine. I am disappointed that winning means more than character. I am disappointed that this glorious season will be tainted by this man. I don't know how deep I will boycott the Cubs, but I will not be able to support them at the same level I have in the past.
Goodbye, Cubs. See you after the free agent market opens. I hope he's gone by then. My being gone will mean nothing to the Cubs--they will probably have more fans than ever. But I will be able to do my job without feeling like a hypocrite.
This is how I'm handling it. It's up to you how you will.
My love for the Cubs is as much a part of my identity as my eye color. It's shaped my personality. It's where I've met many of my friends and why I have any twitter followers at all. Everyone knows I love baseball, but that I REALLY love Cubs baseball.
And today, I will lose that part of me.
Aroldis Chapman is the fastest-throwing pitcher in baseball, and maybe ever. He's incredible to watch. Last year at Wrigley, when he was pitching for the Reds against us, everyone, including me, checked the MPH after every pitch, oohing and ahhing as the numbers climbed over 100 MPH.
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| Here is Chapman pitching 100 mph to Matt Szczur at Wrigley last year. |
Shortly before spring training this year, Aroldis Chapman's girlfriend placed a 911 call. According to her report, Chapman choked her. She escaped and hid in some bushes in her yard, and in anger, Chapman fired eight shots into the garage wall. You can read about it here.
Later, she recanted the story in a couple different ways, but both she and Chapman admitted that he had lain hands on her. And, anyway, the bullet holes were still there.
In a brave and bold move by MLB, and in accordance to their new anti-domestic violence policy, Chapman was suspended for 30 games, despite the fact that criminal charges were not filed. He accepted the suspension and said he had executed poor judgment by shooting his gun, but that he had done nothing wrong to his girlfriend. You can read about it here.
(See above where he admitted that he had lain hands on her.)
So, after his 30-game vacation, he came back to the Yankees, and the Cubs just acquired him in a trade for several prospects. The Cubs and Chapman released a statement saying that they had a stern talk with Chapman and told him he had to be a good boy if he was a Cub. He said he would. They feel that he will be fine. Chapman said he already dealt with it and is working on his relationship and doesn't want to talk about it. You can read the pathetic statements here.
I could have taken a meaningless, "I'm sorry I did this, but---", because at least that would be SOMETHING. But in all of Chapman's statements, he has made it clear that he has done nothing wrong to his girlfriend. I would even take a pathetic, obviously PR-driven move of his making a donation to a DV shelter or something, because that would at least say, "Well, I didn't do anything, but I hope I can help people when something DOES happen." But he is through talking about it. It didn't happen.
I get that this may not matter to you. I get that you may have never stood between one of your best friends and her husband as he swung his fists, and then watched her go back to him a few days later because she just knew he would never do it again. I get that you may have never looked into the empty eyes of a survivor of domestic violence who has convinced herself that she doesn't deserve any better than the backhand of her partner.
I can't share most of what I have seen of the domestic violence world because of client-counselor confidentiality. But here's what I will share--some statistics here. And some here. My favorite stat is that only 25% of assaults are reported to the police. The cases that actually go to court are lower. The cases with conviction are even lower.
It would be easy to say the girlfriend was lying, that this is all about money, that who cares what he does off the field when he throws so darn hard on the field. It would be easy to stay a Cubs fan, because for the first time in FOREVER, it actually IS easy to be a Cubs fan. They're winning and making history and being overall adorable. I named my cats after Rizzo and Bryant, for Pete's sake. If you know me at all, you know that my love for the Cubs surpasses almost everything, and that I would never speak ill of them unless I felt it was important to do so.
We all have causes close to our hearts because of our personal experiences, jobs, ethnicity, etc. This is a cause close to mine. I am disappointed that winning means more than character. I am disappointed that this glorious season will be tainted by this man. I don't know how deep I will boycott the Cubs, but I will not be able to support them at the same level I have in the past.
Goodbye, Cubs. See you after the free agent market opens. I hope he's gone by then. My being gone will mean nothing to the Cubs--they will probably have more fans than ever. But I will be able to do my job without feeling like a hypocrite.
This is how I'm handling it. It's up to you how you will.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
My Dad and Baseball and Father's Day
My dad died two and half years ago. It's an ache I carry with me every day, although I have grown used to the pain, and, like a bad knee or a bad back, I don't really notice it anymore unless it gets poked.
After my parents divorced, my dad and I spent awkward weekends in his studio apartment in Chicago, bored out of my mind and counting the minutes until I could go home. I was miserable.
Then, when I was 14, I discovered baseball. I discovered Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg, Robin Ventura and Craig Grebeck. And I discovered that baseball was beautiful and complex and perfect, and that the players were stone-cold foxes. But the best thing I discovered was that my dad and I finally had something to talk about and do together. Those miserable weekends became something I looked forward to. My dad, who was totally sexist, began to value my baseball opinion. We talked well into the night.
He took me to my first Cubs games, a doubleheader against the Reds. I wasn't prepared for the beauty. We walked in under the big red marquee, and we walked through the dark tunnel, and then up the stairs into the bright sunlight and saw the greenest green my eyes have ever seen. Our seats were right behind home plate, where I could hear every expletive muttered by the players and the blue of their pinstripes was so vivid against the whites of their uniforms. I fell in love that day, and I have been in love ever since. Later that season, he took me on the field at Wrigley for some kids event. I touched the ivy. I stood on first base and pretended I was Mark Grace. I ran the bases and had one of the greatest day of my life.
My dad and I became very close, and remained close until his death. When I moved to Minnesota for college and stayed there for a decade after, he called me and updated me on everything baseball. For a while, I grew away from the sport, following it only peripherally because I was focusing on college and life. We watched the Cubs in the 2003 playoffs together, despite the distance, by talking on the phone the whole time. I was crying when the Bartman incident happened and everything failed, but he was explaining to me that this was the life of a Cubs fan. He had been through it in 1969 and it taught him to always be cautiously optimistic when it came to the boys in blue.
As my dad got older, he preferred staying home to going to the ballpark. I could get him to go to Comiskey sometimes, but he never wanted to go to Wrigley. So we watched baseball on tv, and shared memories, and talked about the players we liked best. When I bemoaned losing Theriot, he talked up Castro. When Kid K walked off the field that last game, I called my dad, crying, and he said I'd love again. He called after every Steve Clevenger hit or Blake Parker strikeout. When Robin Ventura was named manager of the White Sox, he called me incessantly until I picked up. I always called him after meeting a baseball player, and he always wanted to hear every detail and made me repeat everything. He was always the first one to give me baseball news, but he was also the first one I called to talk about my baseball adventures.
Every Father's Day, I picked up a pizza and went to his house to watch baseball all day. It was our tradition for almost 20 years. Since he's died, I spent those first two Father's Days at baseball games, and I'd get a slice of pizza and sit alone and watch the game and miss my dad.
This year, I decided to hang out with my stepdad and the rest of the family. I was beginning to regret my decision when John Mallee, a wonderful man and the Cubs hitting coach, offered my friends and I on-field batting practice tickets and seats to Saturday's game against the Pirates.
It was surreal. I was standing there, the day before Father's Day, mingling with Kris Bryant and Billy Williams, Wrigley's dirt drifting in my sandals. Our seats were behind home plate. I was back in time. I wanted to call my dad to share with him this unexpected gift. He would have understood that the awe I felt as a child standing on that field was the same awe I felt 20-some years later, standing on that same field. I loved every second of yesterday, and I know he wasn't literally with me, but I think he had a glimpse from heaven of the heaven I felt yesterday.
He would've loved this Cubs team so much. He would've loved Maddon's management style. He would've loved watching Arrieta pitch and Bryant hit. I have wished many times that my dad could watch this team with me, but yesterday, I felt like he did. As crazy as that seems, I felt closer to him on that field than I have felt since I lost him.
Baseball is the connection between my dad and me. I will always have my dad to thank for my love of baseball, but now I have John Mallee to thank for giving us that Father's Day moment.
I miss you, Dad.
Monday, June 13, 2016
My top 11 pet peeves of baseball
Baseball games are my favorite. I'm so relaxed there. Sometimes I go to an area where no one is sitting (easier to do on the South Side than the North Side) and I don't cheer or talk. I just watch the game. Life can be so stressful.
But some things threaten to ruin that peace I get at games, and here they are. I hate to be negative, but I go to a lot of baseball games and I'm an American, so I have decided that I have the right to criticize everything.
In no particular order:
1. The Wave
Also, it's perfectly acceptable to represent your own team when your team is actually playing the home team. If two teams I love are playing each other, I generally represent the visitors, because I feel bad for them and want them to know they are still loved, though in a foreign land.
Exhibit B:
Here's what a think is just kind of mean. I live in the Chicago area, and for some reason, many Cubs and White Sox fans feel that you have to hate one if you love the other (a belief I do not agree with at all--I love them both). So, for some reason, these jabronies will go to a Sox game but wear a Cubs hat or vice versa, no matter what random team the home team is playing. I get it--you NEED attention, you spoiled millennial. But just stay home. Don't waste your money or time spreading your hate. Watch the game or go home! I seriously don't get why they even show up.
Exception: Sometimes you are forced to go to the stadium of a team you hate because someone you love says you have to, or maybe you have to for work or something. I think at that point it is fine to wear your team's gear in a silent protest and sign of your passive resistance. But, full disclosure, I won't know this about you and will still be judging you.
And on that note:
5. Home Fans that are Super Rude to Visiting Fans
I get it. The Cardinals are the worst. But when these weirdos from St. Louis drag their arrogant butts to Chicago, and then they lose, or if our guy hits a home run, just leave it alone. Be the bigger person. Jesting in good fun is fine--but generally, it gets out of hand. One of my friends here in Chicago went to a game with her young daughter, and the Cardinals fans started saying horrible things to this 8-year-old. My friend told them off, because she is amazing and basically a wolf protecting her young, but the damage was done. I have been spit at and had beer thrown on me by White Sox fans who didn't like that I was cheering for the Twins one time and the Astros the other. Another time I was leaving The Cell in my Twins shirt and a guy came up to me and drunkenly screamed in my face that I was a loser.
Again, it's fun to tease. My brother is a Yankees fan and I hate the Yankees, and every year I take him to a Yankees game for his birthday, and every year my team loses to the Yankees, and he teases, and I wish for a different life. But no one spits. No one screams hateful things. I have MANY Cardinal-fan friends, and while I constantly re-evaluate why they are still my friends, we manage to have many good convos about our teams, and surprisingly, no one ever dies.
Minnesota, by the way, is always so welcoming to me, no matter which team I am supporting. Minnesotans are the best people on earth. Take a lesson from them, rest of the world, and make your city proud by welcoming its visitors--especially you, Sox fans! Visiting teams' fans fill up the majority of the sold seats at The Cell!
6. The Traffic Police After Games
I hate that they are always waving at you, annoyed, to blow through the stop sign at 90 mph. I hate their judgmental faces. I'M NOT GOING TO GO 90. STOP MAKING ME FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO.
7. Drunk People
Hi, drunk people. Here's the deal. You are not funny. You are not cute. You are gross and loud and you smell. All I want to do is watch the game, but you are sitting near me yelling gross thing at the players, and I am fairly sure in a few moments when the game ends, you will be getting in your car and driving home, and I am sorry for all of the world who is at your mercy while you are behind the wheel.
I was at this game at The Cell against The Rangers
and this super drunk guy kept yelling over and over, "I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas." Security talked to him, he explained this was a free county, and continued to declare his suicidal leanings based on geography. I was so uncomfortable. One, he wasn't funny; did he think that would be a humorous comment? Two, it was kind of the worst thing to ever say to someone, and I really don't think he was kidding, so it put all of us in the area in a weird position. Like, did we have duty to warn?
Sometimes drunk people let the dancing fly and that can be semi-entertaining, but it never ends well. Always in tears or fighting or falling and bleeding.
Alcohol at games is so expensive and I don't know why you are wasting your money on a game you won't even remember.
8. Kids
Leave them at home.
Just kidding, mostly. Yesterday I sat behind a couple and their kid, and the seats were really expensive, like probably 100 dollar seats (I paid 7 dollars for mine), and the kid was on a video game thing THE WHOLE TIME.
If your kid doesn't want to be at the game, don't take them. Wait until they want to come. You're going to make your kid hate baseball if you force him or her to suffer through 3 hours of torture (to them).
Also, if you bring a kid to the game and I catch a foul ball or a home run, I'm keeping it. I'm not going to give it to a dumb kid. They have their whole lives to catch their own baseballs, and maybe if they got off the phone or the video game and played baseball outside like a human, or were watching the game, they would have caught the ball instead of me.
*disclaimer: I actually do give a lot of baseballs away to kids during the season, but NEVER if someone says, "Give it to the kid!" I'll give it if I feel like it or if the kid looks like this will make him or her a baseball fan for life.
Which reminds me:
9. Those Who Throw it Back
How can you do that? I don't understand. I have been to thousands of baseball games and have NEVER caught a home run. If I ever get the honor and privilege of catching a home run ball, I am keeping that thing for life. If I'm sitting in the bleachers at Wrigley when this happens, I guess I'll have to run for my life because those people will cut me.
Don't pressure the lucky bloke who actually caught a home run ball into throwing it back. I know it's tradition, but too bad. It's a special moment. So I guess my peeve isn't really with those who throw it back so much as it is with those who pressure others into throwing it back. I think this is mainly a Wrigley thing, but I've seen it elsewhere.
And .... probably the one I hate almost as much as the wave...
10. People Who Boo Their Own Team and Players
What is WRONG with you? Chicago fans are the WORST about this (although Boston is probably actually worse).
My favorite example of this is none other than Sparkles himself, Kris Bryant. Sit back and enjoy a good story.
Everyone wanted him up from day one, but he started in AAA, so Cubs fans became defiant and called for his call-up and made signs and swore at Theo Epstein. Then Mike Olt got injured and they needed a 3rd baseman, and he was called up. I was there for his debut with the Fitzys and we were pumped!
So then he gets up to bat and everyone is so psyched. Here he is in his MLB debut:
Everyone stood up and cheered. You can see that everyone took a picture. They wanted a home run, because that's what the promise of Kris Bryant was. Home runs galore!
Except, he didn't hit a home run. He struck out. And then he came up to bat again. Less cheers this time, but everyone still seemed pretty excited.
And he struck out again. Then he came up again with men on base. So much adrenaline must have been pumping through him. Everyone was cheering. He could be a hero!
But that didn't happen.
His fourth at-bat that day, the fans booed him. Just brutally screamed "YOU SUCK" and "GO BACK TO THE MINORS" and all kinds of worse things I won't write here. Needless to say, he ended the day hitless. I can't remember the last at bat--I want to say he hit a long fly and when it was caught the crowd booed him.
The next day was more of the same. Booing him every at bat. But then he got his first hit
and now he's everyone's hero and people would kill their mother to get his autograph.
I say all this and posted all of those basically identical pictures to say this: You are such a terrible person if you are spreading your hate with boos. You might as well just do The Wave, for crying out loud. The rude, hateful tweets are also garbage.
What if someone came to your job with a bunch of their friends and watched you work, and when they saw you make a mistake, they just started booing you? I feel like I would feel like a loser and perform even worse. I know athletes have thick skin, but seriously, you are just a total jerkface if you boo your own guys when they are down.
Here's the thing. I can talk about my mom being a turd to my family, but if one of my friends ever said something about my mom, I'd punch him in the throat. I don't post how much I hate my mom on twitter, or that I think she should be fired from being my mom. I just kind of wait it out, or maybe I won't spend as much time with her when she's unpleasant. Well, that's how you should be about your team. Gripe about the Cubs to your other Cubs fan friends, but if you see a picture of one of them taking a selfie with a fan, don't reply with "Stop taking selfies and start getting hits," as if you need to stop doing one to get the other. This actually happened when the Sox posted a picture of my friend Polly getting a picture with Jose Abreu.
It's okay to say you're not going to games until they start winning, but don't pretend that you were with me in a 3-hour rain delay at Wrigley in September of 2012 that ended with the Cubs losing by, like, 35 runs.
Which brings me to the saddest pet peeve:
11. Fair-Weather Fans
Much like Blackhawks fans.... Don't pretend that you've stuck by the Cubs through thick and thin because most of you didn't. Most of you don't remember Lendy Castillo or Justin Germano or Joe Mather but I do, because I loved them even when they lost 101 games.
I have sat in the front row at Wrigley because it is so empty. I have paid 10 dollars to do so. They were so bad. In fact, I blogged about that entire losing season. I never booed Carlos Marmol when he blew saves, even though my heart burst every time he went on the mound. I didn't boo anyone that whole season. And they still had moments to cheer about, especially that last game, which you can read about at this place.
My favorite moment in the season, other than all the hob-nobbing with the players, was Bryan LaHair himself, who we called LaHomer. He was super boss most of the first half, and I am going to quote myself for what happened in the bottom of the 9th that last game of 2012:
"Bryan LaHair came up to bat. LaHair, who had such a great start to the season but had been largely forgotten when Rizzo was called up to take his place at first. LaHair, who couldn't seem to hit lefties. LaHair, selected to the All-Star team by the players but who let another player use his glove at first. I am not a baseball mind, but I didn't understand why he sat the bench so much and didn't even get a chance. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be on the Cubs next year--they could trade him and get a lot for him. And I really wanted this for him.
And he singled.
As the run scored, the Cubs ran on the field and mobbed him."
The Cubs will win the World Series this year, and I will be so happy, but I don't know if I will be as happy as I was that night for Bryan LaHair, who, as I predicted, did NOT return to the Cubs, or even MLB, and is right now playing for the Somerset Patriots, an independent baseball team. I don't know if I will ever be as happy for anyone as I was in that moment.
That is why being a fair-weather fan cheats YOU. You missed some of the history and some of the lore, even though you did get all the good stuff. You're like the dad who never changes diapers or gets up in the night with the crying baby, but holds up the kid when he's all dressed up and, as the mom is withering in the corner on 2 hours of sleep, talk about how much you love that kid. I wonder how much you love the kid you didn't love enough to get up with in the night, and I wonder how much you loved the team that you never really knew back when you thought they were unlovable.
It's not as fun to go to Wrigley now, because I spend my time bitterly judging the lunatics around me who jumped on the Cubs bandwagon. But then I remember that their loss was my gain, because before Jake threw no-hitters, he hung out with me in a hotel lobby and woke up my friend, as you can see here. Anthony Rizzo knows who I am and remembers that I was there in the bad times. I got to know awesome guys like Steve Clevenger and Blake Parker and Josh Vitters and Joe Mather and Jeff Beliveau. I can tell you stories about every guy on that team, good stories. And I can know that every win is kind of a thank you from the Cubs (whether they know it or not) for sticking by them.
So what started as annoyance and ended in bitterness/nostalgia is really just me telling you I love the game, and asking you to please not ruin it for me.
But some things threaten to ruin that peace I get at games, and here they are. I hate to be negative, but I go to a lot of baseball games and I'm an American, so I have decided that I have the right to criticize everything.
In no particular order:
1. The Wave
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Here are some very attractive British futbol players, who kept starting the wave at The Cell. No. No no no. I don't care that you are handsome and athletic and British. Okay. I care a lot about that. But it isn't enough for me to sit back and let you lead The Wave at a baseball game. I forgive them, though. It's an American law.
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In 2011, the Texas Rangers posted this on the big screen:
Here's the thing about The Wave. It's so dumb. I want to watch the game. And what invariably happens is that at some pivotal moment in the game, the wave starts, and everyone is standing, and I can't see, and everyone is like, "Alex, why don't you do the wave?" And I'm like, "BECAUSE I WANT TO WATCH THE GAME, YOU DUMMY!" And I really do say it in capital letters, although I may not call the person a "dummy," because that is just childish.
Let's also be practical. A stadium doing the wave is likely to be distracting to the players. Just please stop, okay? Please. I'm begging you. I hate it so much. Just stop.
2. The Person on Their Cell Phone the Entire Game
Now, I like SnapChat and I will definitely Snap a few Chats at any given moment. I've even been known to tweet my feelings during a game on occasion. Feel free to take 800 million pictures, because you know I will. But what I just don't understand is that person who is on the phone texting and facebooking and tweeting and instagramming their food and taking ENDLESS selfies of themselves with their hair over their shoulder, now in front of their shoulder, now with a duck face, etc.
Please just stay home and don't waste your money or your loved one's money. It's annoying to watch. Especially if you came with me, and I am the loved one who wasted my money on you. It actually is painful for me to sit next to someone on a phone the whole time.
* side note--I am a total hypocrite because a couple weeks ago, I had a work emergency at a Cubs game, and I spent the whole time on my phone, and I was so annoyed and probably annoying to my dear friends Jamie and Erin. I ended up leaving early. It was the worst, but I had to do it. Here I am with them during a pause from texting:
3. People Who Go Up and Down the Aisles the Entire Game
This is one reason I love Target Field. They don't stop you from going up, but you can only go down the aisles between hitters. It's so annoying when you can't see what's going on because someone has to go get their 29th beer.
4. Wearing a Rival's Jersey to the Home Team's Game Just to be a Jerkface
Here's the thing: If you are from out of town and just want to represent your home team because you're away from home, but enjoying the grand world of baseball, I'm fine with that.
Exhibit A:
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| I took a group of high school seniors from Minnesota to some California ballparks. Here we are at a San Francisco Giants game representing the Twins. I don't remember who the Giants were playing that day, but it wasn't the Twins. We were just showing our Minnesota pride and not being purposely jerkfaces. |
Exhibit B:
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Representing Minnesota at The Cell Representing the White Sox at Target Field |
Here's what a think is just kind of mean. I live in the Chicago area, and for some reason, many Cubs and White Sox fans feel that you have to hate one if you love the other (a belief I do not agree with at all--I love them both). So, for some reason, these jabronies will go to a Sox game but wear a Cubs hat or vice versa, no matter what random team the home team is playing. I get it--you NEED attention, you spoiled millennial. But just stay home. Don't waste your money or time spreading your hate. Watch the game or go home! I seriously don't get why they even show up.
 |
| Oh, look. Here I am at Busch Stadium, home of the worst team in the world, and I am just wearing flowers, because I'm a nice person and not a hater. They were playing the Reds, and I love the Reds, but I just watched the game in my flowers and cheered for Joey Votto. |
Exception: Sometimes you are forced to go to the stadium of a team you hate because someone you love says you have to, or maybe you have to for work or something. I think at that point it is fine to wear your team's gear in a silent protest and sign of your passive resistance. But, full disclosure, I won't know this about you and will still be judging you.
And on that note:
5. Home Fans that are Super Rude to Visiting Fans
I get it. The Cardinals are the worst. But when these weirdos from St. Louis drag their arrogant butts to Chicago, and then they lose, or if our guy hits a home run, just leave it alone. Be the bigger person. Jesting in good fun is fine--but generally, it gets out of hand. One of my friends here in Chicago went to a game with her young daughter, and the Cardinals fans started saying horrible things to this 8-year-old. My friend told them off, because she is amazing and basically a wolf protecting her young, but the damage was done. I have been spit at and had beer thrown on me by White Sox fans who didn't like that I was cheering for the Twins one time and the Astros the other. Another time I was leaving The Cell in my Twins shirt and a guy came up to me and drunkenly screamed in my face that I was a loser.
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| I was just silently standing there screaming for George Springer to come over because I am in love with him and also because I wanted to get his autograph on this photo to finish the Astros in it, when the poophead behind me spit in my hair because he said he hated Astros fans because they were all Mexican. It was a weird day. |
Again, it's fun to tease. My brother is a Yankees fan and I hate the Yankees, and every year I take him to a Yankees game for his birthday, and every year my team loses to the Yankees, and he teases, and I wish for a different life. But no one spits. No one screams hateful things. I have MANY Cardinal-fan friends, and while I constantly re-evaluate why they are still my friends, we manage to have many good convos about our teams, and surprisingly, no one ever dies.
Minnesota, by the way, is always so welcoming to me, no matter which team I am supporting. Minnesotans are the best people on earth. Take a lesson from them, rest of the world, and make your city proud by welcoming its visitors--especially you, Sox fans! Visiting teams' fans fill up the majority of the sold seats at The Cell!
6. The Traffic Police After Games
I hate that they are always waving at you, annoyed, to blow through the stop sign at 90 mph. I hate their judgmental faces. I'M NOT GOING TO GO 90. STOP MAKING ME FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO.
7. Drunk People
Hi, drunk people. Here's the deal. You are not funny. You are not cute. You are gross and loud and you smell. All I want to do is watch the game, but you are sitting near me yelling gross thing at the players, and I am fairly sure in a few moments when the game ends, you will be getting in your car and driving home, and I am sorry for all of the world who is at your mercy while you are behind the wheel.
I was at this game at The Cell against The Rangers
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| Here's a picture of Brett Lawrie from the game because he's perfect. |
and this super drunk guy kept yelling over and over, "I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas." Security talked to him, he explained this was a free county, and continued to declare his suicidal leanings based on geography. I was so uncomfortable. One, he wasn't funny; did he think that would be a humorous comment? Two, it was kind of the worst thing to ever say to someone, and I really don't think he was kidding, so it put all of us in the area in a weird position. Like, did we have duty to warn?
Sometimes drunk people let the dancing fly and that can be semi-entertaining, but it never ends well. Always in tears or fighting or falling and bleeding.
Alcohol at games is so expensive and I don't know why you are wasting your money on a game you won't even remember.
8. Kids
Leave them at home.
Just kidding, mostly. Yesterday I sat behind a couple and their kid, and the seats were really expensive, like probably 100 dollar seats (I paid 7 dollars for mine), and the kid was on a video game thing THE WHOLE TIME.
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| Here's my niece Lainee, who I took to a Twins/White Sox game last year, and we had a blast. I am a hypocrite. So I will say it's okay to take SOME kids. |
If your kid doesn't want to be at the game, don't take them. Wait until they want to come. You're going to make your kid hate baseball if you force him or her to suffer through 3 hours of torture (to them).
Also, if you bring a kid to the game and I catch a foul ball or a home run, I'm keeping it. I'm not going to give it to a dumb kid. They have their whole lives to catch their own baseballs, and maybe if they got off the phone or the video game and played baseball outside like a human, or were watching the game, they would have caught the ball instead of me.
*disclaimer: I actually do give a lot of baseballs away to kids during the season, but NEVER if someone says, "Give it to the kid!" I'll give it if I feel like it or if the kid looks like this will make him or her a baseball fan for life.
Which reminds me:
9. Those Who Throw it Back
How can you do that? I don't understand. I have been to thousands of baseball games and have NEVER caught a home run. If I ever get the honor and privilege of catching a home run ball, I am keeping that thing for life. If I'm sitting in the bleachers at Wrigley when this happens, I guess I'll have to run for my life because those people will cut me.
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| Here's a Joe Mauer autographed ball I did not catch, but rather WON, at a Twins game. I did not give it to a kid. Also, I am wearing a Cubs jacket in this picture, but this is acceptable because (A) I'm from Chicago, (B) No one in Minnesota hates the Cubs, and (C) it was so cold, plus (D) I'm wearing a Twins shirt underneath. So this picture doesn't illustrate this point, but I wanted to brag about the ball. |
Don't pressure the lucky bloke who actually caught a home run ball into throwing it back. I know it's tradition, but too bad. It's a special moment. So I guess my peeve isn't really with those who throw it back so much as it is with those who pressure others into throwing it back. I think this is mainly a Wrigley thing, but I've seen it elsewhere.
And .... probably the one I hate almost as much as the wave...
10. People Who Boo Their Own Team and Players
What is WRONG with you? Chicago fans are the WORST about this (although Boston is probably actually worse).
My favorite example of this is none other than Sparkles himself, Kris Bryant. Sit back and enjoy a good story.
Everyone wanted him up from day one, but he started in AAA, so Cubs fans became defiant and called for his call-up and made signs and swore at Theo Epstein. Then Mike Olt got injured and they needed a 3rd baseman, and he was called up. I was there for his debut with the Fitzys and we were pumped!
So then he gets up to bat and everyone is so psyched. Here he is in his MLB debut:
Everyone stood up and cheered. You can see that everyone took a picture. They wanted a home run, because that's what the promise of Kris Bryant was. Home runs galore!
Except, he didn't hit a home run. He struck out. And then he came up to bat again. Less cheers this time, but everyone still seemed pretty excited.
And he struck out again. Then he came up again with men on base. So much adrenaline must have been pumping through him. Everyone was cheering. He could be a hero!
But that didn't happen.
His fourth at-bat that day, the fans booed him. Just brutally screamed "YOU SUCK" and "GO BACK TO THE MINORS" and all kinds of worse things I won't write here. Needless to say, he ended the day hitless. I can't remember the last at bat--I want to say he hit a long fly and when it was caught the crowd booed him.
The next day was more of the same. Booing him every at bat. But then he got his first hit
and now he's everyone's hero and people would kill their mother to get his autograph.
I say all this and posted all of those basically identical pictures to say this: You are such a terrible person if you are spreading your hate with boos. You might as well just do The Wave, for crying out loud. The rude, hateful tweets are also garbage.
What if someone came to your job with a bunch of their friends and watched you work, and when they saw you make a mistake, they just started booing you? I feel like I would feel like a loser and perform even worse. I know athletes have thick skin, but seriously, you are just a total jerkface if you boo your own guys when they are down.
Here's the thing. I can talk about my mom being a turd to my family, but if one of my friends ever said something about my mom, I'd punch him in the throat. I don't post how much I hate my mom on twitter, or that I think she should be fired from being my mom. I just kind of wait it out, or maybe I won't spend as much time with her when she's unpleasant. Well, that's how you should be about your team. Gripe about the Cubs to your other Cubs fan friends, but if you see a picture of one of them taking a selfie with a fan, don't reply with "Stop taking selfies and start getting hits," as if you need to stop doing one to get the other. This actually happened when the Sox posted a picture of my friend Polly getting a picture with Jose Abreu.
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| I called him out, and we conversed for a bit, but he insisted on being a jerkface. |
It's okay to say you're not going to games until they start winning, but don't pretend that you were with me in a 3-hour rain delay at Wrigley in September of 2012 that ended with the Cubs losing by, like, 35 runs.
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| Okay, the actual score was Pirates winning 3-0, but look at the time. That is dedication and love. |
Which brings me to the saddest pet peeve:
11. Fair-Weather Fans
Much like Blackhawks fans.... Don't pretend that you've stuck by the Cubs through thick and thin because most of you didn't. Most of you don't remember Lendy Castillo or Justin Germano or Joe Mather but I do, because I loved them even when they lost 101 games.
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| Here's Angela and me with Michael Bowden's (do you even know who Michael IS?) shoelaces at the last game of the 2012 season. We went to about 60 Cubs games that year. They were 61-101 that year, a .377 winning percentage. But we cheered on every single player. |
I have sat in the front row at Wrigley because it is so empty. I have paid 10 dollars to do so. They were so bad. In fact, I blogged about that entire losing season. I never booed Carlos Marmol when he blew saves, even though my heart burst every time he went on the mound. I didn't boo anyone that whole season. And they still had moments to cheer about, especially that last game, which you can read about at this place.
My favorite moment in the season, other than all the hob-nobbing with the players, was Bryan LaHair himself, who we called LaHomer. He was super boss most of the first half, and I am going to quote myself for what happened in the bottom of the 9th that last game of 2012:
"Bryan LaHair came up to bat. LaHair, who had such a great start to the season but had been largely forgotten when Rizzo was called up to take his place at first. LaHair, who couldn't seem to hit lefties. LaHair, selected to the All-Star team by the players but who let another player use his glove at first. I am not a baseball mind, but I didn't understand why he sat the bench so much and didn't even get a chance. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be on the Cubs next year--they could trade him and get a lot for him. And I really wanted this for him.
And he singled.
As the run scored, the Cubs ran on the field and mobbed him."
The Cubs will win the World Series this year, and I will be so happy, but I don't know if I will be as happy as I was that night for Bryan LaHair, who, as I predicted, did NOT return to the Cubs, or even MLB, and is right now playing for the Somerset Patriots, an independent baseball team. I don't know if I will ever be as happy for anyone as I was in that moment.
That is why being a fair-weather fan cheats YOU. You missed some of the history and some of the lore, even though you did get all the good stuff. You're like the dad who never changes diapers or gets up in the night with the crying baby, but holds up the kid when he's all dressed up and, as the mom is withering in the corner on 2 hours of sleep, talk about how much you love that kid. I wonder how much you love the kid you didn't love enough to get up with in the night, and I wonder how much you loved the team that you never really knew back when you thought they were unlovable.
It's not as fun to go to Wrigley now, because I spend my time bitterly judging the lunatics around me who jumped on the Cubs bandwagon. But then I remember that their loss was my gain, because before Jake threw no-hitters, he hung out with me in a hotel lobby and woke up my friend, as you can see here. Anthony Rizzo knows who I am and remembers that I was there in the bad times. I got to know awesome guys like Steve Clevenger and Blake Parker and Josh Vitters and Joe Mather and Jeff Beliveau. I can tell you stories about every guy on that team, good stories. And I can know that every win is kind of a thank you from the Cubs (whether they know it or not) for sticking by them.
So what started as annoyance and ended in bitterness/nostalgia is really just me telling you I love the game, and asking you to please not ruin it for me.
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