<%@ Language=VBScript %> Keepgoing.org - Spring 2001 - Fools in Motion
The Farm

April Fools

By Blythe Smith

White Sox Capture Baseball Championship... "You don't get it, man. This is gonna be our year. We can't lose!"

"Right. Just like last year was gonna be your year, and the one before that, and every fucking year since the dawn of time. Remind me again: how many times have the Cubs won the World Series in your lifetime?"

"Dude!" said Jerold, swallowing a mouthful of beer. "Cheap shot! Besides, I could ask you the same damn thing about the White Sox."

"True," replied his buddy Graham. "But the difference is, we don't go around proclaiming it's gonna be 'our year' every April. We have at least a slight grip on reality. When there's hope, we hope. When there isn't, we go to the games and drown our sorrows in beer and nacho cheese."

"Reality check, my friend. Only about 300 of you go to the games. The rest stay home and bitch at their TVs. Wrigley has better attendance during their worst season than Comiskey does in their best. Besides, every single thing about baseball is better at Wrigley Field. We have hotter women. We have a better team. And we have the best damn ballpark in the entire fucking major league. Not to mention Harry Caray. Shit, even the beer vendors are cooler at Wrigley!"

"Excuse me, but the same vendors work both sides. Don't you remember that crazy dude with the limp and the face like melted cheese who served us at Wrigley and Comiskey? Besides, even you have to admit that the most fucked-up, coolest beer vendor of all time was that guy at Comiskey who you could hear growling 'Miller Liiiiiiiite' halfway across the diamond. Remember? We were imitating him under our breath, and he heard us? And he said, 'Well kids, hope you enjoy that Miller Liiiiiiiite!' before he moved on? Shit, I was so drunk. He was a definite 5 out of 5 on the fucked-up-crazy-cool-beer-vendor scale."

"I don't know, 4 out of 5 maybe. He didn't have a limp, or a face like melted cheese," argued Jerold.

"True," replied Graham, and they clinked glasses. "Look, I won't debate you about the field," he continued. "Nobody likes new Comiskey. Any real Sox fan will tell you that old Comiskey was home, new Comiskey sucks, and Reinsdorf is a fucking asshole. Wrigley is beautiful."

"Damn straight."

"Let me finish. All I'm saying is that it's a damn shame that the shittiest team in baseball plays there. And by the way, everything certainly is not better at Wrigley. I've never had to wait in line to piss in a trough at Comiskey. Plus, the food is awesome! All you've got is greasy pizza and hot dogs. Over on the South Side we got Polish, we got chocolate-filled churros, we got great Italian ice!"

"Hey man, I'm not driving all the way down to 35th and Shields for an Italian ice."

"Sure, but you'll put up with every loud-mouth, drunk-ass frat boy in Wrigleyville just to see you precious Cubbies lose one more time. As for the women, it's debatable. But what do you go to the games for anyway, man? To see hot chicks or to see a ballgame? That's the problem with you fucking Cubs fans. Your priorities are all out of whack."

"Dude, I've seen you trying to pick up chicks at old Comiskey and new, as well as at Wrigley. Don't give me shit about my priorities. And by the way, trying is the operative word as far as your success with the ladies goes." Jerold drained his beer and emptied the remains of the pitcher into his glass.

"I'm not even going to grace that remark with a reply," said Graham, signaling to the waitress for another pitcher. "But I will say this: may I gently remind you that Harry Caray is dead? I mean, I know he's like a saint or something to you people, but I don't think you get to claim him as a perk for Wrigley anymore. Besides, you Cubs fans always seem to forget that Harry was just as big of a White Sox fan before he went over to the dark side. And before that, he was getting drunk and living large down in St. Louis with the Cardinals. I sang along with Harry when you were just a wet dream in your daddy's underpants, OK? Don't talk to me about Harry Caray."

Jerold drunkenly lifted a finger and pointed it like a gun at Graham. "Don't talk shit about Harry, man. I can put up with you bad-mouthing my Cubbies. I can put up with you dissin' the friendly confines and our fine North Side ladies. But Harry is sacred. And my dad's underpants? You're a year younger than me, punk."

"I know. But it sounded good," replied Graham with a smile.

Jerold smiled back. "At least we have a fight song with words. There's nothing more inspiring than a stadium full of drunk people yelling 'Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah – HEY HEY! – nah nah nah nah.'"

"You know that song rocks."

"Whatever. Can you please explain to me what is up with the Sox fans' obsession with songs without words, anyway? Before that one it was 'nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, good bye.'"

"You know that song has words. And unlike you guys, we have an excuse for singing our damn fight songs from time to time – you know, because we win once in a while? It's no wonder nobody knows the words to your lame song. That piece of crap rocks just about as hard as 'Bear Down, Chicago Bears.' Besides, at least we're not obsessed with some fucking plant that's growing all over our stadium's walls. Can you please explain to me what's so awe-inspiring about ivy? I mean come on, my grandma grows ivy for christsakes."

"Once again, cheap shot. Look, all arguments aside, does our pact still hold?"

"You mean the White Sox-Cubbies-World-Series-Armageddon-comes-to-Chicago pact?"

"Exactly."

"But of course, my misguided friend. I vow to stay alive, with my bosom buddy at my side – deluded though he is by those North Side devils – until our brave Pale Hose and your born-to-lose Flubbies come together for a clash of the titans and our fair city burns to the ground. I vow not to go gently into that good night until Roosevelt Road becomes the no-man's land between those faithful to the good guys in black and those who follow the flag of those loveable losers from the land where streets are not named with numbers. I vow…"

"Dude, I get the picture. The pact stands. Now let's drink to our respective teams so you can shut the hell up for a minute." And the lads raised their glasses in a respectable toast between "enemies."




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Copyright©2001 by Blythe Smith.

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