Bill-on-the-Hill

Like many people who grow up in downstate Illinois, as I did, I have a deep-seated, visceral dislike for Chicago and everything associated therewith. (Sorry, Marc and Peter; nothing personal.) Time, maturity, and an appreciation for some of the city's definite pluses have mellowed this dislike somewhat, but haven't eliminated it, and it was therefore with definite misgivings that we included a stop there for baseball watching, even though it had to be done; the city does have two major-league teams, after all. As will be seen, this visit did nothing to convince me that my prejudices about the place are misplaced...

After checking out of our highly satisfactory B&B in Milwaukee, we spent the morning at the Milwaukee Art Museum, located in a brand-new, architecturally ... striking (that's the polite word) building on the shores of Lake Michigan. I would not go so far as to call this a "first-rate" art museum by any means, but it had its attractions: sparkling and bright, minus the musty air that one associates with too many of the world's less-than-first-rate art museums, and you certainly have to find something nice to say about a place that includes among its assets possibly the world's best collection of decorative beer steins! It also has quite a decent cafeteria on the grounds, and we had an enjoyable, leisurely lunch there before heading south to Chicago, over highways that might have been (but weren't) sleek and efficient 40 years ago, but are badly run down now.

For reasons best left unstated, we'd decided, before making the trip, that we would not stay in the heart of Chicago itself, but rather had booked into a Best Western in Evanston, a northern Chicago suburb best known as the site of Northwestern University, which we wanted to check out in passing. Alas, the weather had gone from unseasonably-cold-and-windy-but-clear to unseasonably cold, windy and wet, which pretty well put the kibosh on sightseeing on foot. Accordingly, we decided to take a "lay day" and get laundry done, repack, eat locally (Prairie Moon Restaurant deserves at least a passing nod for an entertainingly diverse menu and good preparation), and generally prepare for the White Sox game that we'd see the next day. Alas, most of this agenda proved unrealizable, because the hotel was a mess -- and I would say, not a very safe mess. The guest's laundry didn't seem to be working and devoured the coins we put in the washing machine, with no water, agitation, etc., to show for it. Eventually a hotel maintenance guy ambled by to "fix" it, observed that there was no sign of power, and before I could stop him, started messing around in the fusebox ... and after a loud BANG! and a dazzling white flash, it was pretty clear that this wasn't the best idea. I was afraid that we were going to have to perform CPR on whatever remained of him, but remarkably enough, he was unfazed, said something intelligent like "well, that's not the problem," and carried on as if nothing had happened. Now I don't know about you, but when a panel full of circuit breakers emits loud noise and white flash -- but the breakers don't even trip -- that is a sign to me that I really don't want to be in the vicinity of that wiring for a millisecond longer than it takes me to be somewhere else. We politely informed him that we'd settle for a refund of our laundry coins and do our clothes later, and retired to our room, hoping that the place wouldn't burn down some time during the night.

On rising the next morning and discovering to our relief that there hadn't been an electrical fire overnight, we joined groggy parents and students (it was campus-visit week, and many were checking out Northwestern) at the only-half-open hotel restaurant, then got the **** out of that place as soon as we could pack up, and headed for Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox, whose game we were there to see. At least that was the plan -- but baseball is a fair-weather sport, and the weather had continued to deteriorate overnight, to the point where even the local football team wouldn't have wanted to play. We thought surely the game would be canceled, but no, the show must go on -- and we certainly didn't want to make another trip to this place, particularly having laid out some serious bread in advance for good, field-level seats. So there we sat, waiting through an interminable rain delay until the first pitch was finally thrown -- in a drizzle and 38-degree (Fahrenheit) conditions. I don't even remember much of what was happening on the field; our attention was focused simply on staying warm, and the game was played as though the players were as anxious to be out of there as we were. Well, there was one exception, and I feel I must give a shout-out to White Sox pitcher Ehren Wassermann for the way he handled himself during the delay. This worthy, who'd been called up from the minor leagues just a few days earlier, spent a truly remarkable amount of time at the railing signing autographs for fans in the freezing rain -- and remember, he's a pitcher, so taking care of his hands has to be a priority for him. All of the more experienced players on both teams knew better than to do this and were huddled together for warmth in the dugouts, if not the clubhouses, but Mr. Wassermann did the best he could to show the White Sox flag, and for this, I tip my cap to him.

By the 8th inning, we'd had all the sub-Arctic conditions we could handle, and decided to get out of there, particularly since the Sox were winning and their opponents, whoever they were, had only one at-bat left, which presumably would pass in a fog of ultra-large strike-zone calls so that the players and umpires alike could get off the field. (Hah. We found out later that the Hose relievers coughed up the lead in the top of the 9th; the game went into extra innings, and finally was suspended in the 12th, still tied. They'll finish it in August, if I recall correctly.) I cannot review Comiskey the way I reviewed Milwaukee's Miller Park, because our experience had so little to do with real baseball, but one thing sure: we will not be going back for another game there. We fought our way through rush hour to get on I-55 (in essence, Route 66) bound for downstate Illinois, where I'll pick up the story in the next installment -- which will have a decidedly maudlin component, but ends at a park that calls itself "Baseball Heaven," and not without justification.