Subject: Re: The Curse of the Billy Goat, or If a Body Lose a Body...
From: Paul Kennedy (kennedyp@toronto.cbc.ca)
Date: Mon May 07 2001 - 19:16:06 GMT
What Cecilia so graciously forgot to mention was the score of Saturday's
game....
Ahem.... 20-1.... Cubs over Dodgers. And I--Jackie Robinson fan that I
am--very much enjoyed myself, almost despite myself. I even cheered for the
Cubs. And I sat in awe as a Sama Sosa Skyrocket sailed right over our heads
and into the street, well over the ivy, but also only just four or five
inches on OUR side of the fowl ball post; with three men on base, and two
men out, in the bottom of the eighth; with seven runs already scored that
inning.... Sosa later walked-in the eighth run in the eighth inning, to
make it 20 to 1, and an almost perfect Saturday afternoon in Chicago....
But, ahem, since I know that we're not supposed to talk baseball here, I'll
focus on other specific details in the lady's little fiction:
>He had the
>bearing of a former Marine and the sort of face that you trusted.
THIS is where I first began to wonder about our author's obviously failing
grasp of reality. She put "marine" and "trust" in the same sentence. Of
course, had I read the signs of what ACTUALLY happened on that fateful
afternoon (and I WAS there), it should all have been clear so much sooner.
Let's try to begin at the beginning. We'd agreed to meet in some bar with
"Bleechers" in its name.... It's right behind the Bleechers entrance to
Wrigley.
I'm there REALLY early. I have a beer. Alright, I have a few beers....
People start to go across the street to the game. I start to worry. I have
another beer.
You see, I'm meeting a REAL, died-in-the-wool Cubs fan. She's confessed
that she MUST attend this particular game because they're giving away floppy
Cubs hats to the first 30,000 fans. She wants a floppy Cubs hat. She must
be crazy.
We must be early....
She's e-mailed me the name and the address of the bar where we're supposed
to meet. I've printed out her e-mail message, but I've forgotten to bring
it with me.
Still, there's only one bar with "Bleechers" in its name, and it's right
behind the bleechers entrance, so it must be the right place. So I have
another beer.
She doesn't show. She doesn't show. She still doesn't show. I have
another beer.
She finally shows, and we run right across the street, and into the ballpark.
We're too late for the floppy hats. The last one was given out only moments
earlier. I heave a brief sigh of relief, and tell her that I have to buy
beer.
"You go to the seats, and I'll bring refreshments!", I command, as I hear
the opening bars of the American National Anthem.
I heave another sigh of relief, because I know that I'd be crying if I
happened to be inside Wrigley, at our seats. I almost always cry at
national anthems in great stadiums. I wouldn't want my Cubs-fan host to see
me show such signs of weakness.
After all, I'm NOT a marine. A marine could probably forgive a guy who
cried at national anthems.... for all the wrong reasons....
But back to the story:
>I watched him pull out a pen and a notepad. "Can you describe
>your missing person? About how old is he?"
>
>"Umm," I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
>"About fifty."
>
>He dropped his pen and stifled a grin. "Ma'am. Adults
>don't usually get lost in a ballpark. What makes you think he's
>in some kind of trouble? Is he the troublemaking kind?"
>
>"No." Of course he wasn't. But we'd separated on our way to our
>seats so that he could get beer and already it was the third
>inning and he hadn't shown up.
So back to the story: I'm buying beer and generally enjoying myself in the
bowels of Wrigley. I've been instructed to purchase a brand of beer that is
only available here... which I dutifully do. And then I follow my own
instinctive sense of direction, the numbers printed on my ticket, the
instructions of several exceedingly polite ushers, and the logical
organization of Wrigley field, to arrive, before long, at our seats....
She's not there. I wonder why. I begin to worry.
She's STILL not there. I talk to our neighbours. They're from California.
They find it VERY cold in Chicago. They say that no one has ever been
there, or rather here.
She's still not there, or here.
In fact, no one has ever yet been in the place where she is not....
>I knew I was in the right spot--
>I'd even shown my ticket to the usher, who assured me I was
>in the right place.
Classic case of right place, wrong time.... But I foreshadow.....
>"Now," the Security guy continued. His grin was now about as wide
>as China. "Don't get angry at me for asking this sort of question,
>but could he possibly be ... intoxicated?"
>
>I shook my head. "No, definitely not."
Once again, given what I actually know about the time and place in question,
I can't help but wonder about the credibility of our narrator. I mean, I'd
been waiting at some Irish pub behind the bleechers, drinking toasts to
Scottie and other absent friends, for hours and hours and hours. She didn't
show. She didn't show.
I'd had a few.
How could she not have noticed me swaggering from side to side while we
walked from the pub to Wrigley's main gate? Did she really not know that my
offer to buy beer was, quite plainly, an offer to visit the Men's Room
first, followed by a probably unnecessary purchase of a refill? Was she
nuts? Meanwhile, back to our story:
>He shot me a skeptical look. "Now, don't get angry with me for
>this one either, but I have to ask. Is he retarded?"
>
>I couldn't help it. I began to laugh. "No, he's definitely not
>retarded."
By THIS point, EVERYBODY in the bananafishbowl should be questioning the
credibility of our narrator.... She IS nuts! He IS (I am) retarded! But
back to our story:
>"He's not a troublemaker, he's not intoxicated, he's not retarded.
I rest my case.....
>What makes you think he could have been thrown out of the ballpark?"
>
>I shot him a superior look. "He's wearing a Blue Jays jersey."
>
>He sat up again and grabbed his pen. "Oh. Well. I understand.
>I can put out a call if you like. I'm pretty sure we've only thrown
>a couple guys out of the Bleachers. But you never know. You say
>he's fifty-ish and wearing a Blue Jays jersey?" He looked at me
>again. "Are you sure he's not retarded?"
>
>"No." I smiled. "He's just Canadian."
... Friends, I have to tell you that Ferguson Jenkins pitched at Wrigley.
Ferguson Jenkins was a Canadian. Ferguson Jenkins was also a Cub....
The Wrigley/Cub official's smile, which had been "as wide as China", shrank
into something considerably flatter and narrower than Saskatchewan.
Fergie Jenkins certainly knew where and when to throw every pitch.
Canadians tend to know the time and place for everything.
This may have been the week in which the Curse of the Billy Goat was overturned!
But back to our story:
>Have I mentioned that the Cubs are in first place? I think it's
>all about Paul. He's lifted the curse of the Billy Goat. This
>year we're going all the way.
Have I mentioned that the BlueJays are in first place? Or did I tell you
that Cecilia dragged me down into some sleazy subterranean bar where I was
forced to prostrate my naked body before the taxidermized head of some
long-dead Billy Goat?
I guess that's another story....
>Thanks, PK.
My pleasure, CB.
Bring on the Yankees!
Cheers,
Paul
OSR: Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
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