Last night being a Cubs fan saved my life

Everything is going wrong.

Julie turns a simple 45-minute drive to Dave’s house — our meeting point — into a 3 hour tour of I-294. We’re forced to scrap our pre-drinking plans at Barleycorn.

To pass the time, Dave, Jaimie, and I play catch. Except, Dave can’t catch. You’d never guess that he’s a stiff. A 12-year-old boy starts heckling, then walks over by his dad — most likely a Little League coach — who is laying on the grass nearby. Both of them glance at Dave right when the ball rolls through his legs, Bill Buckner style. They share a good father/son moment by laughing hysterically.

The traffic towards Wrigleyville sucks. $35 parking sucks.

It’s drizzling lightly outside in 45 degree weather and Dave and I, wrongly anticipating a warm spring day full of tank top clad buxom Cubs chicks, aren’t thinking and wear t-shirts.

We decide to skip watching batting practice and pre-drink quickly. One vodka with Redbull costs $8 at the Cubby Bear. I buy a round of four for our group.

Glendon Rusch is the starting pitcher for the game. The Cubs should have called up Rich Hill and that freakshow sweeping curveball of his from the minors.

Glendon Rusch gives up, like, a hundred million homeruns.

Aramis keeps getting under the ball too much. Jerry Hairston keeps sucking.

$5.75 for a cup of beer at Wrigley Field — the cheapest deal you can get there — sucks.

Wearing a thin t-shirt and poking the people next to me with my goosebumps and refusing to wear the blanket that Jaimie brought to the game sucks.

Rain sucks without a poncho.

Some guy asks me a random Aflack Trivia Question: which player recorded the most doubles in the MLB in the 90s? I tell him it’s Mark Grace, and he tells me I’m correct. I’m happy for a second, until I realize that the Cubs could really use his bat out there. They end up losing 16-2 to the Brewers.

We go to Sluggers for a little bit after the game. I’m tired, but Jaimie wants to go dancing. Dave wants to go home. We go upstairs and pay $3 to get into the piano duel room, where the two guys are playing one Billy Joel song after another.

Dave and I decide to hit some balls at the batting cages in the room next door. If only I could make contact. On the 40-45 slow pitch cage, I go 0-12, whiffing on every pitch but one — a solid foul tip. Guys waiting in line shake their heads in embarrassment for me.

I’m exhausted, hungry, and crabby. Dave’s anxious to go home. I text message Stewart and tell him not to bother meeting up with us.

I tell Jaimie we’re going home. She pouts for a second, then stops herself when she realizes how she’s too broke to stay out dancing.

The drizzle that annoyed us during the game has evolved into a deluge by the time I’m driving back home to Champaign. My driver’s side windshield wiper is missing, so I’m forced to look at the road by stretching my neck towards the right side of the windshield.

My windows start to fog up, and that’s when my guessing game begins. I hit full blast on the heat, but it doesn’t help, so then I hit full blast on the cold air. That doesn’t seem to help either. I keep going back and forth, flipping the dial between hot and cold. I’m confused, and panicking because I can’t see out the windows. I always forget what to do when my car windows fog up.

I say fuck it and open all the windows of my car halfway down to clear up the fog in my car. My seats are getting drenched, but I don’t care. I need to see.

On I-47, somewhere between Gibson City and Champaign, my eyes start blinking slowly. My head keeps dropping to my chest. I’m exhausted and starting to fall asleep. The one hour of sleep I had the previous night is coming back to haunt me.

I try to blast my radio but my car isn’t picking up any stations out there in the middle of nowhere. I’m barely getting WPGU. Mostly it’s all static.

I’m dozing off and terrified because every time I close my eyes it feels... sooooo... goooood. My car keeps swerving. My body isn’t producing any adrenaline to keep me awake. I’m so close to nodding off, and dying.

So I turn off the radio, and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. Take me out to the ballgame, take me out with the crowd... This song is the only reason that halfway Cubs fans stay till the 7th inning during games like the the 16-2 debacle I’m coming home from. Buy me some peanuts and Crackerjack, I don’t care if I ever get back...

And it’s root, root, root
for the Cubbies
If they don’t win, it’s a shame
Cause it’s one, two, three strikes
You’re out
At the old! ball! game!

And I sing this over and over and over, repeatedly, loudly, as festive as I would at any Cubs game, and it takes me from the outskirts of Gibson City to I-74 to finally... Champaign. And it keeps me awake. And alive.

On games like the one yesterday where they lost 16-2, being a Cubs fan hurts, but on nights where you’re about to fall asleep while driving home in the rain, it can save your life.