November 3, 2016
Featured Image by Matt Slocum
The Cubs’ World Series win in 2016 is the type of moment that I can travel back to any time I close my eyes. The morning after it happened, though, I sat down and wrote this essay—about baseball and the things we inherit—in one sitting.
Here’s an excerpt:
What’s a trip to Wrigley without a look at the marquee? Everyone was taking pictures, wanting to capture, to share this moment. People stared at that old red sign, just kept looking and looking and looking. INDIANS VS. CUBS, WORLD SERIES GAME 3, 7:00 PM We walked in under it, into that stuffy old concourse, and up the stairs to field level.
There’s something off about a baseball diamond before a game. Maybe it’s that it feels like it’s waiting. Waiting for its perfect lines to be scuffed, its perfect white bases to be dirtied, its perfect emerald grass to be ruffled. It just sits there most of the time, waiting to be ruined. And somehow, when its ruined, when it has all those scuffs and scrapes, it’s even more perfect because of that.
Everyone pauses at the stop of those steps, when that first look sinks in. Dad stopped right next to me, the halogen light reflecting off his glasses. He started to smile, and then he reared back and shouted into the sky.
“I’M AT WRIGLEY FIELD FOR THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES!” And then again, “I’M AT WRIGLEY FIELD FOR THE FUCKING WORLD SEIRES!” And then, “THE WORLD SERIES! AT WRIGLEY FIELD!”
He started shaking his head, and we walked to our seats.