Seventy-Two Hours in Chicago

On Friday and Saturday, a cold front was moving into Cleveland, and the brief respite of warm, spring weather was slowly disappearing in a blur of snow, sleet, wind, and clouds.

Thankfully, the weather report for Chicago for the weekend showed temperatures between 55 and 66 degrees, with forecasts of sun and clear skies to boot.

My girlfriend, a couple buddies, and I were leaving for a weekend in balmy Chicago. Yes, that's right ... balmy Chicago.

After an hour and a half of driving through slush and wind on I-90, we headed into mild temperatures and clear skies in Indiana, and the promise of baseball in our futures. (It bears mentioning that my NASCAR-esque driving skills allowed us to make tremendous time, while other poor souls trudged along the highway, crawling along, scared of the elements.)

We arrived in balmy Chicago in time to watch the second half of the Michigan State/UNC game at a fine drinking establishment. Of course, it would have been nice to see the Illinois/Louisville game, but it actually wasn't that big of a deal for two reasons:

1. I've been completely eliminated from every one of my NCAA pools, and have a newly-developed lifelong vendetta against March Madness.

2. We were in Chicago, a city that has grown quite fond of the Ilini, and we were going to celebrate Illinois' victory with complete strangers.

Needless to say, somewhere between a $150 bar tab, a minibar that got called some vulgar names for not efficiently dispensing a beer for my friend, a University of Chicago party during which my friend needlessly told people he was a professor of zoology at Ohio State (clearly, he's not), and liquor in test tubes, we got some rest and prepared for Day Two in the Windy City.

While Cleveland received a dose of winter weather on Sunday that broke the record for snow in a year, we enjoyed crystal blue skies and warm temperatures in Chicago. We ventured down Michigan Avenue for some afternoon shopping and some lunch.

Here's my first complaint about the trip. Multiple people had recommended that we get some pizza at Giordano's, which was fine because nothing sounded better after a night of drinking than some deep dish, greasy, thick pizza. What arrived at our table, though, amounted to nothing more than five pounds of fake-tasting cheese crammed inside a bland crust. If anyone can point me in the right direction for some good Chicago pizza for my next visit, I would greatly appreciate it.

Finally, Sunday evening, the Major League Baseball season started with perhaps the greatest rivalry in all of sports. Yankees vs. Red Sox. Randy Johnson vs. David Wells.

It was as if there was no offseason whatsoever. Watching the game that night made the winter melt away, and along with it, the steroids debacle, the snow, and the petty arguments over records and biceps.

The world was set straight, and everything seemed natural with freshly-cut grass, bleachers filled, and the introduction to the newest chapter of baseball lore being written in Yankee pinstripes and Boston red.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we were watching the game at the ESPN Zone, where we could enjoy the game with beer, video games, and large televisions. Like I said, the world was in order that night.

In the interest of full disclosure, or boasting, I should mention that I set the high speed on the pitching game with an 83 mph effort, then subsequently got embarrassed at the quarterback challenge, not once, but twice.

After a stop at the bar on the 95th floor of the Hancock Building (touristy or not, it has the most incredible view at night), it was time to rest up for a trip to U.S. Cellular Field.

Now, I've been to games in Cleveland, Detroit (new), Pittsburgh (old and new), Cincinnati (old), Wrigley Field, Fenway, and Arizona, and I don't think I've seen a more run-of-the-mill, could-be-located-anywhere, averagely modern ballpark than U.S. Cellular Field. For a new ballpark, there are plenty of seats with views obstructed by girders, a problem more common to old monstrosities like Municipal Stadium than anything built in the last decade.

There were other minor things that took away from the experience also, like the fact that pitch speeds were not displayed on any scoreboard that I could see, the pitch counts did not differentiate between balls and strikes, and the main scoreboard alternately did not work at all or was a full three pitches behind the action.

Surely, some of these things will or should be corrected, but there isn't a day that a ballpark draws more attention than Opening Day, and it's the little things that leave a lasting impression on visitors.

So, for the game my girlfriend and one of my buddies wore Indians shirts and jerseys, which inevitably led many a White Sox fan to hurl thoughtful insults at us, like, "Cleveland Sucks," to which we replied with, "Go Illinois."

Remember, kill them with kindness.

At the gates they were passing out White Sox rally socks and magnets, and while the magnets were immediately thrown in the garbage, we curiously looked at the socks. My girlfriend decided they would serve as good gloves in case the wind picked up and it started to get cold. My buddy had other ideas, though.

After perhaps one too many "Cleveland Sucks" comments from some people next to us on the escalator, my friend held up the rally sock in front of someone's face and retorted with a comment about what he could use the sock for (think opening scene of "American Pie").

Apparently, you don't always have to kill them with kindness.

We took our place in enemy territory somewhere in the upper deck on the first base side of the stadium and enjoyed beer, brats, and baseball. Whether it was the anemic hitting, the sterling pitching, or a combination of both, the game itself was better than any of us could have imagined (with the notable exception of an Indians win.)

I know it's just the first game, and there's 161 more to go, but I have an eerie feeling that Cleveland's pitching staff will rank in the top three in the American League and lose a lot of games 1-0, or 2-1. The offense from last year has to show up, and soon, because the starters and bullpen are finally in a position to hold up their end of the bargain, and a whole city is waiting to tell White Sox fans where they can put their rally socks.

Openly rooting for the Indians at U.S. Cellular Field drew considerably fewer insults and threats than I have previously experienced in Boston and Cincinnati. But, then again, it always helps when the home team wins.

We jumped in the car after the remarkably short game (I guess I can thank the Indians hitters for that luxury), and headed home after three days in Chicago, ready for some rest and relaxation.

I'll need it for next Monday to deal with the brave White Sox fans that venture eastward for the home opener in Cleveland. Just one piece of advice, leave the socks at home.

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