This will sound callous and, well, probably a little on the douchey side, but it is now Wednesday, and I have finally overcome my mangled physical state after a smashing weekend in Chicago. Why would I tell you this? Simple. I like video games. In fact, I like them more than I probably should. But that doesn't mean that I should live my life in sole slavery to them. Man does not live on bread alone, and sometimes, he needs the Chicago Cubs. You gotta get out there and meet people to make this listing boat we call life interesting, and the bleachers of Wrigley Field --that most sacred of a athletic holy grounds-- has turned into my preferred place to do it.
Yes, I suppose that above paragraph may sound strange, but hear me out. I've been to Chicago five or six times now, and I've had a pretty good track record for just meeting random folks and parlaying that into a real weekend hoedown. Case in point, this past Friday through Sunday. Now, before I explain this, let me make it abundantly clear that there is no clear necessity for liking the Cubbies, baseball, or even sports in general. I've found that $100 and an open mind to be a good cocktail recipe for a perfect, albeit boozy, weekend. The kind that should probably be sent away in the effigy of a Viking Funeral- kind of perfect weekend.
See, Wrigley is one of the last of the old guard of MLB stadiums; meaning, it's about as small as a shoebox. People are almost sitting on top of people in the park, so it's not exactly difficult to get to know your neighbor. But as cool as it is to sweat in the noontime sun of the left field lower deck with a large stranger on your dominant beer drinking side, there had to be another way. Thrill to the notion, then, of the apartment bleacher seats right across the street. See, to those not in the know, Wrigley was basically built in the middle of a residential neighborhood, and apartment gawkers could cool their heels on the rooftops while enjoying a free game. The stadium owners, ill content with this kind of arrangement, struck a deal with the local landlords. Now, onlookers have to buy a seat at a premium cost, but this cost includes an unending river of beer and more ballpark food than our left field friend could possibly eat. It's one hundred clams well-spent.
So step one is complete, and all that takes is a couple days off of work and paycheck. The other ingredient here is all internal. Now that you're standing there, two or three beers deep, and some dude walks by and complains that this game is crawling because it's only the bottom of the third inning (also obviously two or three deep), it's time to make some friends. Do you really care about this game? Unless you're a local, probably not, so go ahead and piss and moan right along with him. Get to know the other surrounding Cubs game drinkers. Make some friends. Talk a little shit. Ask stupid bar bet questions (personal favorites: "there are 6 team names in pro football, baseball and basketball that don't end in S, but who are they?" and "In the original trilogy, only 8 characters actually touch a light saber. Name them."). Pretty soon, the game is going to be over, someone is going to hit on that 6'5'' Amizonian princess you've all been gawking at, and then it's off to Wrigleyville for an evening in a bar with old arcade games and a batting cage. Does it matter that that these people think your name is Marvin but are too drunk to recall so they call you "Merlin?" No, and it's a nickname that you want to stick, anyway.
Is it easy for people to do this? Probably not. Will it make your weekend more memorable? Questionably. Will it make you want to go back to Chicago? I have found, empirically, that to be a yes. You have to get out there and live, people. Trust me on this.
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