Some lasting thoughts after Sunday’s last home game for the Chicago Cub — 8-1 winners over the Cincinnati Reds:
A little girl cried when she got a good look at Captain Cubbo out in Wrigley Field’s left-field bleachers. I might have flinched a little when he maneuvered by me. Several people, nonetheless, wanted selfies with him.
Decked out like some sort superhero (or villain) in Cub paraphernalia, Captain Cubbo says he is the biggest Cub fan around. He is pretty big, I’ll grant him that.
I always thought Ronnie Woo Woo took the cake for being the Cubs’ most famous comic relief. Always in a full Cub uniform while walking around Wrigley and looking like an elderly Ernie Banks, he still chants “Cubs woo, Cubs woo!” His schtick has apparently been going on for some 60 years now.
But back to Captain Cubbo. He wears a Cubs-colored mask, a cape with the Cub emblem and has fake ivy around his arms. He has colored Vs on both of his hands and when he puts them together, it makes the W for a Cubs’ win. He also carries around a little blue bat, which Wrigley Field security must view as harmless.
He apparently is, too.
Some might think he has already earned that promotion from Captain Cubbo to Major Pain.
Ok, I guess he adds a little more color to the Wrigley Field bleachers (as if they need any more) and he doesn’t yell out annoying phrases like “Cubs woo! Ian woo! Happ woo! Cubs woo!”
Not far from our seats was a woman in a gold crown and a sash celebrating her 60th birthday and acting raucous enough that a couple of Cub officials had to give her and what looked to be her daughter a little talking-to. Then there was the guy tossing old baseball cards around. And later the gal who started collecting empty beer cups in order to form a long snake with them.
Harry Caray — who sort of morphed into a cartoon character himself — said on numerous occasions: “You can’t beat fun out at the old ballpark.”
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Before the game, we ate lunch at an establishment that advertised itself as an official Cleveland Browns bar. It wasn’t much more than 100 yards from Wrigley Field. On the rooftop, the Bears were being shown on one TV and the Browns on another but with the sound on for just the Brown’ game.
I find this interesting that a bar is able to cater to one team in a major sports city with no territorial ties. But it seems to be happening all the time these days. Later while walking to our car, I saw other bars with Michigan State and Ohio State banters flying.
It must work.
I asked our waitress if she was a Browns’ fan. “Well, I have the shirt,” she said as she opened her jacket to show off her brown and orange tee.
“But being around these fans, does it make you one of them, too?” I asked.
She leaned down and whispered, “Waiting on them makes me hate the Browns a little more.”
We’ll leave it at that, but I’m guessing that Bear fans aren’t any better patrons while watching a big game in a bar.
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It was the last home game of the season and the first game my 13-year-old grandson Gavin had ever seen at Wrigley Field. I feel a little bad about that, especially since his younger cousins have been to games with me.
He was prepared. “Maddy (his older sister) told me to make sure I go to the bathroom after the eighth inning because Papa won’t wait for you if you have to go right after the game.”
That’s not entirely true, but pretty close. When Maddy was about 13 herself, she announced she had to go visit the facilities when we were leaving the ballpark with 36,000 other fans — most of them either directly in front of us or directly behind us in the slow shuffle to the exit.
That was not a pleasant backtrack.
“And she also said not to go to the bathroom at the same time as you,” Gavin continued, “because you’re the fastest bathroomer in the world and that you don’t want to wait around for others.”
I guess it’s enlightening to know what you’re grandkids think of you.
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Gavin came about two inches from snagging a baseball thrown into the stands by a Cub player right before a game. A guy with a mitt almost knocked him over.
“Next time,” he muttered.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’ve been saying that for about 65 years and close to 300 games now.
Another guy right in front of us did come up with a ball that outfielder Ian Happ had tossed into the stands between innings. It bounced off of a few hands before he plucked it off the cement.
He proceeded to whoop it up and give his wife a big hug and a smackeroo that was almost embarrassing. Then his wife took a picture of him with the ball in his glove that he hadn’t even had to use.
“He’ll probably tell his friends it was a home run ball and he plucked it out of the sky,” one guy behind me said.
I held back a laugh. I didn’t want the guy to think I was laughing at him — partly because I might have acted the same way.
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And after we said good-bye to the the Cubs for 2022, we walked up the aisle only to run into — who else? — Ronnie Woo Woo. I actually fist-bumped his glove.
Yeah, I can get giddy after a Cubs’ victory. I’m ready for next year. Woo, woo!