I celebrated our nation’s birthday by taking in a ballgame at Wrigley Field, a ballpark known for its rich history, neighborhood location and, with the exception of 2016, long-suffering Chicago Cubs fans.
Also, its silence.
Oh, sure, Ian Happ brought the Cubs faithful to their feet on July 4 by going four for four and driving in six runs thanks to a pair of three-run dingers. The Cubs even managed to hang on for a victory, eliciting a “Go, Cubs, Go” chorus from the faithful who stayed for the post-game player fist bumps.
No, I’m talking about the lost arts of ordering and paying for ballpark food.
I didn’t see, or hear, one vendor slamming the lid of the metal crate worn around his neck, signaling not only late-in-life chronic back issues but also that hot dogs were nearby. Instead, those same vendors gazed, with uncertainty, at the patrons, searching for hungry fans who hadn’t already pre-ordered their concessions.
Pre-ordered? As in order ahead of time? I didn’t even decide to attend the game until that morning. OK, it helps to live walking distance from Wrigley, enabling me to stroll over to the ticket window while most fans are packing their cars and fretting about what it will cost to park in an alley underneath public transit “L” tracks, which is where most Cubs fans park.
Now we use our phones to order our dogs, nachos and beer and head to the pre-order line to retrieve them or, in some cases, wait for the food to be DELIVERED to our seats.
I refuse to take part in the food delivery option. What happens if my order is incorrect? Do I pass my iPhone down the row, until it eventually reaches the hands of my “server” so he can see I ordered two Bud Lights as opposed to one? I will gladly pass currency to strangers but not my phone.
I Would Rather Eat Nothing at the Ballpark Than Part With My Phone
On that note, the “money passing” ritual has also disappeared, now that most ballparks have gone cashless. In a country where we’ve grown accustomed to lying and cheating, mostly courtesy of our politicians, it was the most direct display of honesty one could witness. It went like this: Pass a $20 bill to the stranger on your left, who repeated the motion with his neighbor and so on. Eventually the bill reached the vendor. During its journey that $20 was handled by moms, toddlers, grandmas and possibly guys with burglary convictions on their records. But if the total was $16.71, I knew the entire row would ensure I received my $3.29 in change. Along with my food. Not one fan, even one wearing the rival team’s jersey, would even consider pocketing a quarter, a dollar bill or a french fry.
In the fifth inning, I begrudgingly passed my Visa card down the row. Four days later, I’m still checking my credit card statement hourly, convinced somebody, probably the toddler, handled it long enough to memorize my card number, expiration date and security code. Cybersecurity firms should add the following exception to their standard warnings of never sharing your personal information with anyone:
If you are hungry, or thirsty, at a ballpark, then it’s OK.
The Cubs’ season is approaching the halfway point. Hopefully they right their teetering ship, get hot and make the playoffs. I plan to attend several more games, because I still believe, as broadcasting legend Harry Caray often said, “You can’t beat fun at the old ballpark.” However, I will use my phone as little as possible, even if it means standing in a lengthy concession line.
Unless of course I can use it to request some more runs. Does anybody have Ian Happ’s cell number?
