By Tim Baffoe-
(CBS) One-hundred years for one of the last remaining shrines to America’s pastime. A century of excitement, memories, and, most of all, futility. Perhaps no one building has entombed more misery and heartbreak than Wrigley Field. And what better way to salt the festering wound of bricks and ivy than celebrating the park’s anniversary.
Besides what I’m sure will be dragging out any number of sideshows in honor of the occasion, such as displaying oldest living Cubs fans, charging 1914 prices on various game days (ha, yeah right!), celebrating all the great teams that called Wrigley home and never won any titles, unveiling Ronnie Woo Woo’s birth certificate, and having Kerry Wood lead the crowd in doing the Charleston, the organization is also holding a contest to create a logo commemorating it all.
Not one to pass up a challenge (I’m the only guy to go 3-0 in “Not the father” on The Maury Show—take that, Cheyanna, Dakota Rae, and Doug), I’ve decided to submit a few original pieces for consideration. I really tried capturing various aspects of the Wrigley experience and tradition. One of these is bound to win.
Nothing encapsulates the quaintness and prevalent smell of urine at Wrigley like the famous bathroom troughs. No one is cooler than Elvis. Elvis covered in Moises Alou callus alleviator? Laughably sad. Like the history of Wrigley Field.
BOM. BOM. BOM. BOP BOP. BAAA DAH. BOM BAH DAH DAH [BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM]. Any true pathet… badass knows those are the opening notes to Van Halen’s hit “Jump”—fall in a volcano, Sammy Hagar—played so many times as the Cubs have taken the field at Wrigley, most notably during the celebrated season of farting away a championship, 1984. Even after such a season of fans being kicked in the Leon Durhams, faith in the Cubs hardly waivered, and fans returned year after year like lemmings jumping off a cliff. Might as well jump, right?
In the later innings of day games the park becomes infested with foul creatures that consume any garbage that is near, which basically makes them Cubs fans. They are far more intelligent than given credit for, always knowing the best time to get fed and confusing Alfonso Soriano with their math riddles and brain teasers.
The same cannot be said for the losers that wait for hours outside of the park for home run balls because they didn’t listen when their parents told them not to drink the cleaning products under the sink. I encourage more bleacherites to toss their scraps in the vicinity of the Ball Hawks in order to take their other bird friends away from the field of play and pooping on more appropriate targets.
It’s a good thing the Cubs won’t be good for a while because the organization has decided Wrigley Field is now a concert venue. Generating revenue from such popular acts and events as something named Jason Aldean and letting people watch a movie they’ve seen forty-seven times and identify so much with despite being born two years after its release and growing up in Naperville has jumped in line ahead of not destroying the field turf itself.
Wrigley is no stranger to the sport of footing ball. The Decatur Staleys called the park their home until Doug Buffone died tackling a wall and the game was outlawed. The pigskin returned to The Friendly Confines in 2010 (THANKS, OBAMA) with the Wildcats of Northwestern taking on the Racial Caricatures of Illinois. In fitting Wrigley fashion, somebody fumbled the ball in the planning, and the game had to be played in only one direction. (It has been said the Illinois’ style of play has yet to recover from the rule change.) The Cubs and Northwestern recently announced five future games will be played at the park, with one likely against Indiana so NU will actually win and another being a first round NIT game.
Let’s face it. During the sweltering months of the Chicago summer, Wrigley becomes a Russ Meyer film. In order to keep TV viewers from flipping the channel away from the Cubs chasing six runs, camera shots of attractive women at the park were popularized by the late WGN producer Arne Harris, and it’s led to female attendees almost begging for the camera to land on them. On top of that, fans are often subjected to gigantic boobs, with none bigger than local boy who made good off his brother’s drug overdose, Jim Belushi.
It would be greatly appreciated if you all would bombard the Cubs PR people or whoever is running this thing with requests that one of these works of Microsoft Paint genius be etched in Wrigley lore forever. Because, really, celebrating one-hundred years of comitragedy deserves nothing less, am I right?
Tim Baffoe attended the University of Iowa and Governors State University and began blogging at The Score after winning the 2011 Pepsi Max Score Search. He enjoys writing things about stuff, but not so much stuff about things. When not writing for 670TheScore.com, Tim corrupts America’s youth as a high school English teacher and provides a great service to his South Side community delivering pizzas (please tip him and his colleagues well). You can follow Tim’s inappropriate brain droppings on Twitter @Ten_Foot_Midget, but please don’t follow him in real life. E-mail him at firstname.lastname@example.org. To read more of Tim’s blogs click here.