As an ardent Chicago White Sox fan, I’ve never felt quite right about attending Cubs games at Wrigley Field. Still, as a baseball fan, when a friend offers me a free ticket to a game I’m not going to turn it down. Beer is beer, baseball is baseball, and women are women, so I’m going. Once inside the rotting corpse that is Wrigley Field, though, I kind of start feeling like an Israeli in Palestine. It just doesn’t feel like I’m really wanted there, and during the fifth inning of last night’s Cubs game, Mother Nature/The Gods/Whoever is in charge of this dog and pony show we call Life made it painfully clear that my presence was not appreciated.
It started as your typical rainfall, and while I watched all the fans in the seats in front of me retreat to the concourse for cover, I relaxed in my seat behind home plate and under the grandstand dry as a bone. I laughed at the drenched masses running as though they were the Wicked Witch of the West, all of Wrigley Field transforming into a scene from The Wizard of Oz. Suddenly, a siren could be heard going off. A tornado? In the city? Then the wind suddenly shifted and began gusting at phenomenal speed. The rain was being driven through the fenced facade of Wrigley, and everyone seeking refuge under the grandstand found themselves soaked.