CHICAGO — If Chicago is the city of big shoulders, then the Red Line is its life blood, as a commuter train that rattles and shakes through the heart of town. At Addison Station, the northbound Red Line stops where millions of Chicagoan’s hearts have broken for 102 years.
The World Series came to Wrigley Field on Friday.
It was all magic, until they started keeping score. Cleveland beat the Cubs 1-0.
When the ballpark opened it gates, one of the first patrons to enter was Edie Sine, a 67-year-old woman who flew back to her hometown from Seattle with her husband without tickets to Game 3 of the Series, but an unwavering faith she could find two seats for an affordable price. What happened next was a religious experience.
“I got tickets. You know why? Itap because I believe; I believe in my Cubs. I broke my piggy bank, but I got tickets. Then I walked up the stairs, stood there and looked at Wrigley Field. One of the ushers asked, ‘Can I help you?’ And I told him, ‘No, I’m just breathing. I’m inhaling the ballpark. I can feel it through the soles of my shoes,’ ” said Sine, whose vanity plates on her 2000 Jeep read DHCUBSFN (Die-hard Cubs fan).
From 7:08 p.m., when Chicago right-hander Kyle Hendricks threw the first pitch to Cleveland leadoff hitter Carlos Santana, fans rose to the feet while wearing Cubs jerseys with the names of old heroes named Santo and Banks stitched on the back. More than 40,000 die-hards, which included comedian Bill Murray and rocker Eddie Vedder, stood together nearly all night, as if they were afraid to sit on a ghost.
The Cubs and Indians held center stage. But they were supporting actors to Wrigley, a grand old dame that had waited since 1945 for this October close-up. At Murphy’s Bleachers, the iconic sports bar that sits beyond the ballpark’s famous scoreboard in center field, the marquee declared: “We’ve been preparing for this day for 71 years. Cleveland’s in trouble.”
The outfield walls of Wrigley are covered in ivy and rich in history. This is the place where New York Yankees slugger Babe Ruth called his home run shot in 1932. (“I had no idea that it was here,” Cubs shortstop Addison Russell told The Chicago Tribune. “And in the World Series? Sick.”) And, yes, this is the place where Chicago Bears legend Gale Sayers scored six touchdowns against San Francisco on a rain-slicked field in 1965.
But Wrigley has never sounded like this. It was the sound of hope and fear, with web gems celebrated by high fives and disappointing strikeouts washed down with beer.
In the seventh inning, Cleveland broke a scoreless tie with a run so homely and unremarkable that maybe only LeBron James could love it. After the Indians loaded the bases on a single, a walk and a hit batsman, pinch-hitter Coco Crisp got teammate Michael Martinez across home plate with a hit that dropped in shallow right field.
Cubs skipper Joe Maddon is the best in the game, not that he would ever admit it. Asked to identify a mentor that has influenced his managerial style, Maddon did not hesitate or even arch an eyebrow. “Michael Scott, probably the biggest influence,” he replied, waiting a beat for everyone to catch up with the joke. “Thatap ‘The Office’ for those who don’t watch TV.”
But no manager can look like a genius if his hitters cannot swing the bat. Through eight innings, the Chicago hitters appeared to have neither a plan nor a prayer at the plate.
Throughout Chicagoland, the long-suffering Cubbies faithful prayed for a team that has not won a championship since 1908. Melissa Arnold grew up in McKinley Park, which is White Sox turf. But her late father caught Cubs Fever decades ago, and so love for the Northsiders is in her genes.
“I can’t watch the World Series games on television,” Arnold said. “I listen to them on the radio, because thatap what my Dad did.”
In the bottom of the ninth, trailing by only one run, with every superstition of every Cubs fan working overtime, the home team got a rally started. Anthony Rizzo led off with a single. The two outs that followed moved the potential tying run to third base. Jason Heyward, with a hapless .067 batting average in the postseason, stepped in the box. The crowd groaned. But Heyward reached on an error. And that brought up Javier Baez, a young superstar that shines brighter than a century-old curse.
Baez struck out.
And Wrigley did not even groan. Hearts break in silence.
