hen my husband and I
were first dating, he
asked me out on a
date to a Cubs game. I assumed that he was just another Chicago native who liked the Cubs. I considered myself a North Side supporter – I had the classic C wool cap and everything – but I certainly wasn’t a true follower of the team or the sport of baseball. Sure, my dad took us to a handful of Phillies games in the old Veterans Memorial Stadium in Philly when I was a kid, and I’ve gone to a scattering of Cubs games through the years, but it was purely a thing that locals do without any emotional commitment. Before that date I think I asked him a question I considered rhetorical: “You aren’t one of those crazy Cubs fans with season tickets, are you?”
The look on his face said it all.
It was clear that I was in for an unexpected journey. We sat in his season ticket seats, looking down the first baseline on a perfect summer night, held hands, drank beer, and ate hot dogs. Maybe it was the blush of true love. Maybe it was his genuine enthusiasm for teaching me the finer points of the game. Maybe it’s the spell that Wrigley Field casts upon those willing to wait 108 years for a World Series win. Whatever the source, I became a fan that night. And now, nearly 15 years later, we are raising Cubs fans of our own. We listen to games on the car radio when we’re out, watch them on TV when we are home, follow the National League standings, hate on the Brewers and Cardinals, but most importantly, now we are joined in those very same season tickets seats with our two boys as often as we can.
W