Chicago, Illinois
Wrigley Field
Home of the Cubs
Date Attended: Many, Many Times
Most Recently June 17, 2016
Wrigley Field
Home of the Cubs
Date Attended: Many, Many Times
Most Recently June 17, 2016
Photos from the 1990 All-Star Game:
Scott's View - Wrigley Field
Without a doubt, the one stadium I've visited more than any other is Wrigley Field.
My parents started taking my brothers and me there when we were kids (we went to Comiskey too, but much less frequently). Once when we had great seats behind the Cub's on-deck circle (when tickets like that were much cheaper and easier to get), I had brought along my little Kodak instamatic camera. During the game, Ernie "Mr. Cub" Banks was there taking his swings, and I called out, "Hey, Ernie!" He turned and, seeing a 7-or-8-year-old kid with a camera, smiled and gave me a wave as I snapped his picture. Imagine one of today's stars doing that.
I grew to love everything about Wrigley; the ivy, the scoreboard, the day games... And as I got older I learned to appreciate its history and the great neighborhood around it. But most of all -- may God have mercy on my soul -- I grew to love the Cubs.
Though I was just old enough to recall their historic 1969 collapse, I hadn't yet formed much of an emotional bond with the team. But by 1984, their unprecedented playoff implosion -- they were the first team ever to lose 3 straight games after winning the first 2 in a 5-game LCS -- was enough to thoroughly break my heart. And their repeat performance in 2003 was just as devastating.
So now I live with the dichotomy that all Cub fans know. The eternal optimism, embodied by our constant battle cry of "Wait 'til next year!" is undercut by a nagging doubt, growing stronger with each passing season, that we'll ever see our beloved Cubs reach the World Series in our lifetime.
Nevertheless, Wrigley Field holds many great memories for me. One of my favorites involves not a Cubs game, but the 1990 All-Star Game. Wrigley had not hosted the Mid-Summer Classic since 1962, so it was a pretty big deal in Chicago when it was chosen for the 1990 event. In those pre-internet days, it was decided that tickets would be sold via a postcard lottery. Fans whose cards were drawn had the opportunity to buy 4 tickets to the game. Given Wrigley's relatively small seating capacity, along with the staggering number of seats set aside for each team, the media, league officials, etc., the chances were pretty slim for the everyday fan to be able to attend.
But a few weeks after mailing in my postcard, I was informed -- much to my surprise -- that my card had been chosen. I wrote a check that same day, and soon received my four tickets -- in the upper part of the center-field bleachers, about as far from home plate as you can get without actually being on a rooftop across the street.
Regardless, I was thrilled for the chance just to be in the park. Now, though, I had some decisions to make. I could invite three friends. Or I could invite one friend and sell the other two tickets at a nice profit. I could even choose not to go at all, and make a tidy sum selling off all four -- but I never seriously considered that option. In the end, my love of the game won out over my entrepreneurial spirit, and I chose three people whom I decided would enjoy the experience the most: Ron, of course, and my friends Bill and Bert. All three happily accepted my invitation and were glad to reimburse me for the ticket's face value.
Then Bert had an idea. I had met Bert, who is the owner of a Comedy Club in Chicago's suburbs, when I began working for him part-time a few years earlier. Part of the business of running a Comedy Club entails getting the performers -- who are often from out of town -- from the airport to their hotel. For this reason, Bert had cultivated a close working relationship with the owner of a local limousine service, and sent a great deal of business his way. So he decided to call in a favor, and thus Ron, Bill, Bert and I rode to the All-Star Game in the back of a luxurious stretch limo.
We decided to make a full day of it. Wrigleyville has many good restaurants and bars where we could while away the afternoon -- we spent some time at the batting cages and game room at Slugger's -- plus we wanted to get to our seats as early as possible to see all the pre-game ceremonies and player introductions. So we left from Schaumburg at about 2:00 for the 8:00 game. By the time we pulled up to the ballpark about an hour later, the neighborhood was already abuzz with media, fans, and other curious onlookers. And, apparently by chance, the driver decided to drop us off right in front of the players' entrance to the park.
So, picture this: It's All-Star Game day, the fans waiting outside Wrigley Field have probably already been watching some players arrive, and a big limo pulls up to the curb. The crowd gravitated over and clustered around the car. As four relatively big guys in their late 20's and early 30's piled out, necks craned and people murmured to one another, trying to figure out which Stars they were gazing upon. The disappointment in the air was almost palpable as everyone gradually realized that we weren't in fact heading into the player's entrance, and were no more Major League ballplayers than their grandmothers were. If memory serves, I even heard a voice in the crowd saying, "Ahhh, they're nobody!"
One fan, however, was undeterred. A boy of about 10 began to follow us, and as he got close, he held out a baseball and a pen and said, "Will you sign my ball?" We all tried to refuse, saying things like, "We're not ballplayers" and "You really don't want our autographs," but the kid kept insisting. "Pleeeeease??"
Geez, how could we say no? So we all signed his ball. To this day, I picture that kid taking his baseball to some memorabilia dealer, who must have told him, "Well, this ball could be worth a lot of money with Wade Boggs, Ryne Sandberg, and Cal Ripken's autographs, if it weren't for these other worthless signatures... Who the hell is Scott McLean?"
The game itself was actually a somewhat dull affair, ending in a 2-0 victory for the American League, and was delayed by rain twice for a total of about 2 hours. But the atmosphere in the bleachers was, as always, one big party, and we all enjoyed the experience.
And it's just one of the things that always makes me smile when I recall my many visits to Wrigley Field.
Without a doubt, the one stadium I've visited more than any other is Wrigley Field.
My parents started taking my brothers and me there when we were kids (we went to Comiskey too, but much less frequently). Once when we had great seats behind the Cub's on-deck circle (when tickets like that were much cheaper and easier to get), I had brought along my little Kodak instamatic camera. During the game, Ernie "Mr. Cub" Banks was there taking his swings, and I called out, "Hey, Ernie!" He turned and, seeing a 7-or-8-year-old kid with a camera, smiled and gave me a wave as I snapped his picture. Imagine one of today's stars doing that.
I grew to love everything about Wrigley; the ivy, the scoreboard, the day games... And as I got older I learned to appreciate its history and the great neighborhood around it. But most of all -- may God have mercy on my soul -- I grew to love the Cubs.
Though I was just old enough to recall their historic 1969 collapse, I hadn't yet formed much of an emotional bond with the team. But by 1984, their unprecedented playoff implosion -- they were the first team ever to lose 3 straight games after winning the first 2 in a 5-game LCS -- was enough to thoroughly break my heart. And their repeat performance in 2003 was just as devastating.
So now I live with the dichotomy that all Cub fans know. The eternal optimism, embodied by our constant battle cry of "Wait 'til next year!" is undercut by a nagging doubt, growing stronger with each passing season, that we'll ever see our beloved Cubs reach the World Series in our lifetime.
Nevertheless, Wrigley Field holds many great memories for me. One of my favorites involves not a Cubs game, but the 1990 All-Star Game. Wrigley had not hosted the Mid-Summer Classic since 1962, so it was a pretty big deal in Chicago when it was chosen for the 1990 event. In those pre-internet days, it was decided that tickets would be sold via a postcard lottery. Fans whose cards were drawn had the opportunity to buy 4 tickets to the game. Given Wrigley's relatively small seating capacity, along with the staggering number of seats set aside for each team, the media, league officials, etc., the chances were pretty slim for the everyday fan to be able to attend.
But a few weeks after mailing in my postcard, I was informed -- much to my surprise -- that my card had been chosen. I wrote a check that same day, and soon received my four tickets -- in the upper part of the center-field bleachers, about as far from home plate as you can get without actually being on a rooftop across the street.
Regardless, I was thrilled for the chance just to be in the park. Now, though, I had some decisions to make. I could invite three friends. Or I could invite one friend and sell the other two tickets at a nice profit. I could even choose not to go at all, and make a tidy sum selling off all four -- but I never seriously considered that option. In the end, my love of the game won out over my entrepreneurial spirit, and I chose three people whom I decided would enjoy the experience the most: Ron, of course, and my friends Bill and Bert. All three happily accepted my invitation and were glad to reimburse me for the ticket's face value.
Then Bert had an idea. I had met Bert, who is the owner of a Comedy Club in Chicago's suburbs, when I began working for him part-time a few years earlier. Part of the business of running a Comedy Club entails getting the performers -- who are often from out of town -- from the airport to their hotel. For this reason, Bert had cultivated a close working relationship with the owner of a local limousine service, and sent a great deal of business his way. So he decided to call in a favor, and thus Ron, Bill, Bert and I rode to the All-Star Game in the back of a luxurious stretch limo.
We decided to make a full day of it. Wrigleyville has many good restaurants and bars where we could while away the afternoon -- we spent some time at the batting cages and game room at Slugger's -- plus we wanted to get to our seats as early as possible to see all the pre-game ceremonies and player introductions. So we left from Schaumburg at about 2:00 for the 8:00 game. By the time we pulled up to the ballpark about an hour later, the neighborhood was already abuzz with media, fans, and other curious onlookers. And, apparently by chance, the driver decided to drop us off right in front of the players' entrance to the park.
So, picture this: It's All-Star Game day, the fans waiting outside Wrigley Field have probably already been watching some players arrive, and a big limo pulls up to the curb. The crowd gravitated over and clustered around the car. As four relatively big guys in their late 20's and early 30's piled out, necks craned and people murmured to one another, trying to figure out which Stars they were gazing upon. The disappointment in the air was almost palpable as everyone gradually realized that we weren't in fact heading into the player's entrance, and were no more Major League ballplayers than their grandmothers were. If memory serves, I even heard a voice in the crowd saying, "Ahhh, they're nobody!"
One fan, however, was undeterred. A boy of about 10 began to follow us, and as he got close, he held out a baseball and a pen and said, "Will you sign my ball?" We all tried to refuse, saying things like, "We're not ballplayers" and "You really don't want our autographs," but the kid kept insisting. "Pleeeeease??"
Geez, how could we say no? So we all signed his ball. To this day, I picture that kid taking his baseball to some memorabilia dealer, who must have told him, "Well, this ball could be worth a lot of money with Wade Boggs, Ryne Sandberg, and Cal Ripken's autographs, if it weren't for these other worthless signatures... Who the hell is Scott McLean?"
The game itself was actually a somewhat dull affair, ending in a 2-0 victory for the American League, and was delayed by rain twice for a total of about 2 hours. But the atmosphere in the bleachers was, as always, one big party, and we all enjoyed the experience.
And it's just one of the things that always makes me smile when I recall my many visits to Wrigley Field.
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