In the late Spring of 1989 I found a three week hole in my schedule, and the Chicago Cubs with a couple homestand during that time, so I decided to go support the lovable losers and become a temporary Wrigley Field bleacher bum.
Before I left I had to find some short-term affordable lodging, so I started calling motels on the north side of Chicago. I asked them if they rented by the week. The lady answering the phone at one motel told me, “Honey, we rent by the day, the week, the month, and the hour!”
I was able to find a high-end fleabag motel, about three miles north of Wrigley Field and fairly close to an “El” stop. Everyday that the Cubs had a home game I’d head down to Wrigleyville and do a little pre-game elbow-bending with some of the Windy City’s most faithful fans at Murphy’s Bleachers or the Cubby Bear Bar. Due to my limited funds, I‘d buy one beer at the bar and then re-fill my mug with the pocketed Meisterbraus that I’d smuggled into the bar. They were no longer cold, but considerably cheaper!
Most times, unless I found a really interesting bar buddy, I’d have a couple beers and then head to the bleachers to watch batting practice, and just soak up the stadium’s atmosphere as it filled with fans.
One hot day game with the Mets in town, pitcher Ron Darling grabbed the field’s water hose and playfully and refreshingly sprayed us down. The picture made the next day’s front page of the Chicago Tribune.
Every game’s seventh inning we’d take a break from heckling the visiting outfielders long enough to raise our Old Style drafts to listen to legendary announcer Harry Carey slur “Take me out to the ball game“ followed by an encouraging shout out to the team, “Let’s get some runs!”
Each side of the bleachers then began to loudly chant at each other.
“Right field sucks! Right field sucks!”
“Left field sucks! Left field sucks!”
This went on for several minutes, and since I always sat in left field bleachers, I am fully convinced that, in fact, right field does suck!
Another side show to the game was watching outfielder Lenny Dykstra, who had apparently reached his limit with the heckling fans and would flip them off behind his back to avoid being spotted by the cameras.
The old joke goes that “You get your money’s worth at Wrigley Field because you always get to see the bottom of the ninth.” 1989 was a different year though. For the first time in a long time, the Cubs had a winning team. They ended up making the playoffs for the first time since 1945, but kept the tradition alive by losing to the Giants and breaking the hearts of a new generation of silly believers.
Post games at Wrigley were like a carnival, especially if the “W” flag was raised. The neighborhood was crowded with open instrument-case buskers, boom-box kids break-dancing on cardboard, sausage vendors grilling peppers and onions, and beefy Chicago cops who will put you in a playful headlock if you wear a red t-shirt with the Cardinals in town.
Eventually my three week stint in the bleachers came to an end, so I reached down on the outfield wall and snatched an ivy leaf as a souvenir. I sadly bid farewell to the friendly confines, understanding even better why Ernie Banks was always so eager to play two.