Final Project

So I really, really liked by Final Project for this class, and thought I might as well share it with everyone. Why not? Stay tuned for a post soon on Libra....

BARTMAN NIGHT

JACOB RAJLICH

October 24, 2016

It’s a Monday evening at Wrigley Field. Crowds bustle around me, entering the hallowed playing grounds of the Cubs, playing for a chance to advance to the World Series, a chance to win the pennant. To win a pennant would be spectacular, a feat which hadn’t occurred for the Cubs in seventy-one years. And a pennant victory meant that the Cubs would have a chance to win their first World Series in over a century. On this evening, the Cubs were going to play in Game 6, up 3-2 in the series, against the Marlins. The dreaded Marlins...

The Cubs and Marlins don’t have a bitter rivalry between them, but rather a modern history, a painful one in the eyes of the Cubs. For it was thirteen years ago against the Marlins, that the Cubs had their most unlucky game, in the history of their 108-year streak of relative mediocrity. It was then, on October 14, 2003, that it happened. The Steve Bartman incident. Anybody who happened to be watching that game, Game 6 of the NL Championship Series, knows that Bartman can’t be blamed for what transpired. Well, anybody with a smidgen of common sense can’t. There were a lot of people that lacked common sense then. There’s a lot of people that still lack common sense now. Bartman messed up a play on a foul ball, allowing the Marlins to take the lead at the end of a game, and then win the series. This whole series, people have been talking about Bartman. About him, his actions, his seat in Aisle 4, Row 8, Seat 113 along the left field foul line...Bartman was all anybody wanted to talk about.

Bartman was coming up because tonight, the Cubs somehow managed to put together a “Steve Bartman Night”. Regardless of the fact that Bartman had practically been hidden away for the last thirteen years for his own safety, the Cubs had managed to pull him out of hiding, to make his first public appearance since the incident, throw out the first pitch, and sit in his trademark seat for the game. How Bartman agreed to become involved is unknown. Probably the exchange of large sums of money, exorbitant sums, considering Bartman had turned down TV deals for five to six figures.

I pull out my ticket, have it collected, step through the metal detector, and go inside. I haven’t attended a playoff game since that fateful 2003 season, where I saw the Cubs play in Atlanta as a young toddler. I wonder what’s in store this time around, and if I’ll be able to see history, in the making. Suddenly I notice myself not starting to feel well. I become dizzy and images start blurring. I go to the nearest restroom, go into the stall, and lock the door. All of a sudden, everything darkens into nothingness. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I can’t see, or hear anything. I don’t know what’s going on.

Mens’ Restroom, Upper Deck, Third Base Side

Slowly, my sight comes back. I’m back at Wrigley, in the stall. Thank God. I was starting to worry what was going on. Then, I notice it. The stall’s different. The freshly painted walls are now a dingy off-white, chipping in places. What is going on? I open the stall door, walk out past the urinal troughs. Nothing different there. I head out the door, into the stadium. The cool breeze of a Chicago October afternoon, coming off the lake, is the same. Then I notice it, looking out over the field. The scoreboards, the digital ones, are gone. The Budweiser board in right field, the Wintrust video board in left. There’s only the classic one in center. There’s a Cubs game going on, for sure. The Cubs are out on the field doing field practice, in their home white uniforms. There’s something strange though with the fans. Nobody’s wearing Bryant, Rizzo, or Arrieta uniforms, like I had seen so often during other games this season. Instead, I see numerous fans wearing Mark Prior’s 22, Sammy Sosa’s 21, Aramis Ramirez’s 16. Apparently a lot of fans decided to throw it back for Bartman Night, and dress up like it was 2003. Some strange sort of historical re-enactment.

“Pitching for the Cubs tonight, Mark Prior,” says the PA announcer over the intercom. I stop in my tracks. What? It had been ten years since Prior had pitched for the Cubs, since Dusty Baker had destroyed his shoulder through the stress of countless games where he threw over 100 pitches, even over 120. This is surreal. I run up to a fan, hoping I may be able to find out what’s going on.

“Damn, they’re really getting into the 2003 vibe tonight. Going all out for this Steve Bartman Night, I suppose,” I say to the fan.

“Steve Bartman? Who’s that?” the fan replies.

“You know, the fan who screwed up Alou’s play on the ball, Game 6 of the NLCS in 2003, 8th inning. Started a Cubs meltdown, they lost the game and the series the next night. World Series drought continues. He goes into hiding for the rest of his life, until tonight, when he’s the main honoree at the game today. That Steve Bartman,” I reply. “Seems like everybody here tonight would know of him. He’s on your ticket, after all.” I pull mine out, the piece of printer paper with a barcode on it to be scanned upon entry, showing it to him.

“What the hell is that? That’s not a Cubs ticket! Hell, it says 2016 on it. My kid’ll be graduating from college that year,” the fan says, confusedly. He pulls out a ticket stub out of his pocket, the old-style, classic Cubs ticket. He shows it to me. “This is a Cubs ticket for tonight’s game. Goes for a pretty penny too. Not every day that the Cubs are playing in the NLCS.” I look at the ticket.

“Chicago Cubs vs. Florida Marlins at Wrigley Field,” it says. “Tue Oct 14, 2003 3:00 PM” is the date inscribed on the stubs ticket. I look up in disbelief at the fan.

“Thanks,” is all I can get out as I hand him back his ticket stub, rushing away. It’s Game 6 of the NLCS against the Marlins, alright. But it’s 2003, not 2016. I don’t know why I’m here. But I am. And there’s only one thing I can do: make sure Steve Bartman doesn’t get that ball.

October 14 2003, NLCS Game 6: Top of the 8th

This is crazy. Prior’s still on the mound. With over 110 pitches to his name, Cubs manager Dusty Baker doesn’t even have anyone warming up yet. I’ve made some money on bets. A fan comes up to me, hands me a $20.

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch to think Baker would keep Prior in over 110 pitches. But you’re right. Baker’s gonna kill that kid if he keeps this shit up,” he mutters. Apparently, I’m not the only “psychic” at the stadium that night. Somehow, I’ve managed to find myself a seat. Somehow, I happen to be just over from Bartman. Bartman sits there, watching the game, unaware of what is about to transpire, how is name is going to go down in history if I can’t stop it. A Marlins batter pops it up. 5 outs from heading to the World Series. I get up, and walk down to Bartman.

“Excuse me, sir. Would we be able to trade seats? I’m willing to pay up to $100. I’m just a row up and a handful of seats over,” I tell him.

“What? Why? You must be crazy,” he says, with a look of surprise akin to that he’d be giving in a few minutes, sitting there in his seat, adorned in his green turtleneck, only just starting to comprehend what he had done.

“That seat, and $100, is yours if you want it,” I say again. Thank God for those bets. I don’t need the money for anything else than getting Bartman out of the seat.

“Sure, but you’re crazy,” he says. I hand him five 20s, he gets up, and moves over there. I sit next to a man in gray, waiting for the foul ball to come our way.

Luis Castillo is batting, full count. This is it. He hits a foul ball, way left and short of my spot. He fouls off another one, a high looping one which lands deep in the stands. This foul ball will be it. Castillo swings the bat, connects with the ball. I can see it headed our way.

“Alou’s got it, Alou’s got it!” I scream. A man in gray stands up, in an effort to get the ball. “That’s Alou’s!” I yell. Alou comes running, and the man in gray reaches out over the wall, reaching for the potential souvenir. Alou jumps. I grab the man’s hand, pull it away. Alou makes the catch. Four outs to go.

Prior strikes out the next batter. 127 pitches, eight shutout innings. Cubs 3, Marlins 0. Three outs to go. The Cubs have this thing in the bag. The Cubs offense the next inning delivers, knocking in four runs. Sosa hits a two-run home run, making me think back to the days where I watched him play on TV. Joe Borowski closes out the game. Cubs win! Cubs win! The players dogpile on the pitchers’ mound. As I stand up and high-five the man next to me, it happens again. I fall over, over the wall edge. Everything goes black. I’ve done it, I think as I fade away. Steve Bartman will not be hated for years, and will be able to live a normal life. And who knows, the Cubs might just end their World Series drought in 95 years, years before that game in 2016.

Suddenly, everything starts to come back. But things aren’t the same.

Bathroom

I reappear inside a restroom, inside a bathtub. A residential restroom. This isn’t Wrigley. The only tubs there were the urinal troughs. This can’t be Wrigley. I get up open the door.

A woman screams, then shouts, “What are you doing in my apartment?”

“Sorry, I just showed up here. I don’t know what’s going on!” I stammer.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out!” she continues to scream.

“Where’s the door? I’m sorry. I really am, I just don’t know where I am,” I reply quickly, jumbling my words in the process. She opens the front door, I run out, into a hallway. I see the sign for an elevator, and take it down to the lobby. There, set into a marble wall, are two words, carved out of some black rock.

ADDISON PLACE

Addison Place? What’s that? I’ve never heard of such a place. I run up to the main desk, where a well-dressed man, with hipster beard and glasses, sits waiting for any call to duty.

“Excuse me, sir,” I ask. “Do you know how I could get to Wrigley Field? And also, what’s today’s date?”

“What?” he says, with a sarcastic drawl in his voice. “It’s October 24, 2016. And you’re as close to Wrigley as you’re gonna get.”

“Huh?” I reply, confusedly.

“Very funny, I haven’t heard that one before,” the man replies. “Now if you don’t mind, I have better things to do,” ending the conversation abruptly as he returns to reading his Twitter feed.

Dammit. Once again, I’m in a place where nobody is willing to help. But it’s October 2016, I’m back where I was. I’m confused out of my mind. I step outside, onto a street corner. Then I see the street signs. Addison & Clark. I’m right where Wrigley should be. The classic McDonald’s is still across the street. Wait? Wasn’t that torn down in March? What the hell? Maybe they’ll be able to help me figure out where I’m at.

I walk inside, to find it empty, with the exception of a couple people behind the counter and a lot of pictures of Wrigley on the walls. And then I see it. A photo of a wrecking crane knocking in one of the walls. A small gold plaque underneath the image says, “Wrigley Field Demolition. November 4, 2007.” I go up to the counter.

“What happened to Wrigley?” I ask.

“Tore it down, when the team left town there was no use for it anymore. Somebody turns it into luxury apartments, makes money I guess,” the cashier says. “Business ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure. I’ve owned the place for years. We used to get a ton of business. Now we barely get anything. We’re closing at the end of the month, so they can put up another high-rise here.”
“The Cubs moved? To where? The suburbs?” I wonder out loud.

“If only, there ain’t no Chicago Cubs no more. You wanna see the Cubs play, you go to Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas? Why the hell they move to Las Vegas?”

“Money, man. Controls everything in these parts. Cubs win the World Series in ‘03, they want to make a bunch of improvements, now that they’re a quality program. They don’t have a quality stadium though. It’s too small, city won’t let ‘em put up video boards ‘cause it’ll block the view of the rooftop seats. And Las Vegas makes a nice offer. ‘Hey, we’ll subsidize the construction of your stadium? You pay us 25% of ticket revenue, you get a nice stadium, biggest in the MLB, nicest in the MLB, for only a fraction of the cost out of your pocket.’ City and the state footed the rest of that bill. An offer they just couldn’t refuse.”

“So, you’re telling me the Cubs play in Las Vegas now? They got a playoff game tonight, right?”
“Where you been for the last five years, man? Cubs ain’t no playoff team, they’re the worst team in the NL West. Giants and Dodgers have been smashing the shit out of ‘em ever since the move. Dunno what it is or why, but them Cubs haven’t been the same since the move. They lost the fanbase, they lost Wrigley, they lost their drive to win it seems. The players just take home their paychecks, the Cubs make a bit of money, and they’re happy with that. They broke the drought, now they see no need to win it again. It’s a shame, really. The Cubs had a bright future, in a great place with great fans. But Las Vegas ruined that. The money game ruined it. Fans don’t go anymore, and you can’t even really follow ‘em if you wanted to. Barely get TV time, and they’re an afterthought in the papers, man. If only the Cubs had waited a handful of years to win a World Series, maybe, just maybe, things would be different. Damn, man, you’re making me sad just thinking about it.”

“Thanks for the explanation,” I say sadly. “Could I get a Big Mac?” Perhaps Bartman wasn’t the worst thing to happen to the Cubs after all, I wonder. I hit the floor again, as everything goes back to black once again.

October 14, 2003

I wake up in a booth in the McDonald’s. I look out the window. Wrigley’s there. And so are the fans in Prior jerseys. Back in 2003, at least. A chance to right wrongs, a second chance to make things right, now and for the sake of the Cubs’ future. 2003 was not meant to be the Cubs year, and I can’t allow it to be. The McDonald’s staff pulls out a TV on a roller cart, the old style black box one. We watch the game, as it progresses just like I know it will. The eighth inning comes, Castillo bats. The third foul ball ricochets off the hands of an unfortunate man wearing a green turtleneck and headphones, an image which won’t leave the minds of Cubs fans for years to come. With that, the Cubs fell apart. They lost that night. It wasn’t Bartman’s fault. But Bartman changed the mood of the game, put the Cubs into a very different situation which allowed for the shortstop Gonzales to botch the play. And botch the play once more, he did. The game ends with a crushing loss, the Marlins scoring eight runs after the Bartman play to win, 8-3. I thank the McDonald’s staff, step outside, and walk down the street. I see a man, in green, being rushed into an unmarked vehicle, that peels off and heads down the road.

“My God,” I mutter under my breath. “They’re taking the poor bastard into hiding.” For the last time, I fall over, as everything fades away.

October 24, 2016

I sit up on the stall seat. I hear Pat Hughes on the radio, lamenting about Schwarber’s early-season injury. Thank God. It’s 2016, and the Cubs are playing October baseball. Maybe, just maybe, this’ll be the year. As I walk out of the stall, I look at the ticket, trying to figure out where exactly StubHub has me sitting. Aisle 4, Row 8, Seat 113. The Bartman seat. What a coincidence, I think, as I settle down in my seat. A man comes up to me, offering money to take my seat. Is he like me, trying to change the past to make a seemingly better future, or just a fan hopped up on the nostalgia of “Steve Bartman Night”, hoping to sit in the iconic seat. I can’t risk it, to allow history to be altered and take the Cubs down with it. Whatever happens must happen. I respectfully decline, take a drink of my soda, and begin to fill out my scorecard. Go Cubs!

Author’s Note

The story above was largely influenced by my reading of Kindred, by Octavia Butler. The helpless time travel dynamic of the novel, in which Dana is left to the mercy of whatever is controlling her travel through time, makes for a unique storytelling where rather than many sci-fi novels where the main character finds a way to control time, both Dana and my character (referred to in the first-person, it’s a combination of myself, my die-hard Cubs fan mother, and a handful of fans I’ve met in the times I’ve gone to Wrigley) are controlled by time, having to make decisions in situations that could potentially alter the course of human events forever (though in Dana’s case, with much more severe consequences than the relocation and collapse of a great baseball team). The narrative was also somewhat inspired by the Back to the Future films, with the idea of the character going back to change, what has already been changed, by that same character themself, getting another chance to right wrongs and make everything right once again.

I happened to choose the Bartman story because it’s one that has always fascinated me. The idea of one fan ruining a possibly playable ball (having watched the footage, I’m quite dubious if Alou had a play on it), in turn ruining the game, the series, and even the season to some, is ridiculous in my eyes. What would’ve happened if Bartman hadn’t gotten involved? Would the Cubs be better off or worse off? The Cubs are in the great position they are in today, thanks to Bartman. The Ricketts family wouldn’t own the team, and have transformed it into a great program without Bartman. Jim Hendry would still be the manager. The story, in a way, is a tribute to Bartman in his role in making the Cubs who they are today, though rather exaggeratedly. Rather than bash him, we should realize the unique role he may have played in putting the Cubs where they are today, if we want to even say that he affected that game whatsoever.

This was a lot of fun to write, and I may continue to work on it or other fictional stories based around the Cubs, and/or Wrigley Field experiences. The Cubs are a team with such a rich past, that it seems like it could be quite the project, a set of short stories titled The Time Travels of a Diehard Cubs Fan, or something like that. Maybe a summer project! I hadn’t written fiction in a long time prior to this, and I hope to be able to do even more in the near future on my own!

Bibliography

Babb, Kent. "Steve Bartman's Agent Keeps the Wolves from the Door." Washington Post 15 Oct. 2015: n.

   pag. Chicago Tribune. Web. 26 Apr. 2016. <http://www.chicagotribune.com/sports/baseball/cubs/

   ct-steve-bartman-20151010-story.html>. This article explained a lot about what Bartman has

   done, and gone through, since that day in 2003. Gave me a bit of insight into talking about how

   a fan might see Bartman's reclusiveness, and to provide some factual basis into the strangeness

   of a "Bartman Night", given his seeming unwillingness to return, or even be featured in TV

   commercials for large sums of money!

Catching Hell. Dir. Alex Gibney. ESPN, 2011. ESPN. Web. 26 Apr. 2016. <http://espn.go.com/video/

   clip?id=13883887>. ESPN documentary on the Bartman incident, and a similar error in the 1986

   World Series, useful for gauging fan reactions at the time, and discussing it as a historical

   event as a different context through which to view the incident.

Cubs-Marlins, Oct. 14, 2003 (8th inning). By Jeff Agrest. YouTube. N.p., n.d. Web. 26 Apr. 2016.

   <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZ-4mHW-YRY>. Game footage, as televised of the 8th

   inning, from before the Bartman play through the Marlins' run to the lead and eventual World

   Series title. Of note to a baseball fan outside of the Bartman context is pitcher Mark Prior,

   who pitched over 110 times prior to anybody even beginning to warm up in the bullpen.

"Steve Bartman Incident." Wikipedia. N.p.: n.p., n.d. Wikipedia. Web. 26 Apr. 2016.

   <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Bartman_incident>. A general background of it.