First Time in Wrigleyville

“It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

–Former Baseball Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti

By Dave Fultz

Thud. The sound of the doors on our green Plymouth Voyager slammed shut as my brother and I fought the urge to run down the block before my father could get out of the van.

“Let’s go Dad!” we both yelled with excitement.

It was the fall of 1995 and we were on our way to a ballgame with our Dad for the very first time. The anticipation was nearly unbearable. I was eight and a half, and my younger brother Kyle had just turned six. It was Sept. 28, 1995 and we found ourselves mere blocks away from experiencing our first game at Wrigley Field, the home of our beloved Chicago Cubs.

It was not my first baseball game with Dad, but it certainly was the first one I can remember. I had been to a Rangers game in Texas, where my father was stationed in the U.S. Marine Corps, but I was only about three weeks old then. I cannot recall much about that first game. But my memory and skills of perception were much better by the time ’95 rolled around. And I soaked up every detail that cool, sunny day in late September that we visited Wrigley.

Outside the ballpark, there were the sights and sounds of hustle and bustle. Scalpers yelled as they went about their endless task of finding buyers and sellers. There was the friendly conversation between fans young and old, and the great, red marquee above the entrance to the field, which made us giddy with excitement. “WELCOME TO THE FRIENDLY CONFINES,” I read aloud as the words on the marquee scrolled into view.

It seemed everyone wore Cubbie blue and loved baseball.

Right before we entered the park, we bought peanuts from a vendor. Then Dad rushed us under the marquee and through the gates so that we would not miss the first pitch of the game. We settled into our seats just as the first pitch settled into our catcher’s mitt. Thud.

Our seats provided every possible view of Wrigley Field that a fan could want to see: The ivy on the outfield walls, the massive hand-operated scoreboard that stood high atop the bleachers, and the television booth where Harry Caray led us in singing the seventh-inning stretch.

“We were sitting on the first base side about twenty-five rows up and the bullpen was right in front of us,” my father recalled. I was particularly excited about our prime position down the first base line because it afforded me a great view of my all-time favorite player, Cubs first baseman Mark Grace. “Gracie” and the Cubs had a fine day at the plate as they battled their division rival Houston Astros through eleven innings that afternoon.

It was the perfect game for two young, inattentive boys to attend; the food was delicious and plentiful and the action was nonstop. I’m sure Dad spent a fortune on ballpark food that day, but it was certainly worth it. Three hot dogs and three pops later, my brother and I were both about to burst. We made the journey to the restroom each time one of us felt the need, despite the battle that was taking place on the field.

“Every time you or your brother had to go to the bathroom, somebody hit a home run,” my father later recalled. But even in the men’s room, we heard the cheers and jeers of the crowd as the radio broadcast of the game blared over the loudspeaker.

The Astros took the lead six different times and the Cubs battled back all afternoon. Fans were angrily cursing the Cubs one minute and joyously celebrating them the next, but they were always supporting them. No one left when they surrendered a 5-1 lead in the sixth inning, or let the Astros break a 6-6 tie in the seventh. We stayed because we loved our Cubbies. A palpable tension filled the stadium as every fan seemed to live or die with each pitch.

Then, in the tenth inning, with the game still weighing in the balance, Dad suddenly announced that we had to leave. It was getting late.

My brother and I held Dad’s hands as we rushed back to the van with the game still up in the air. Kyle and I were disappointed about missing a possible comeback by our Cubbies.

“Thanks Dad,” we said as we walked out of the stadium, still wishing we could have stayed until the end, win or lose.

But Dad was one step ahead of us.

When we got back to the van, Dad clicked on WGN Radio’s broadcast of the remainder of the game for the ride home. As we rode down Interstate 55, we cheered as the Cubs took the lead for good in the eleventh inning.

Later at home, I jumped into bed. Thud. My head hit my pillow that night and I have not stopped dreaming about my Cubbies since.

“I want to offer my apologies to you for leading you down this road,” my father once said jokingly. “But I’ve been a Cubs fan my entire life and passing that on to you guys and seeing the excitement for you was great for me, as a Dad.”