Chicago--Part 11

Clarence sat quietly in his chair, but I could see his mind chugging away.  He was weighing whether to yell and cajole me into agreeing with him against hearing my reasoning and taking them down point by point.  It’s not often a person is told their best friend has decided to stay with the cult they’ve just been rescued from.

            “Why?”  His voice was gruff.  He was trying to be nice, but he did not feel it. 

            “Big man,” I said, hoping the use of his nickname would buy me some good will.  “I should not have joined this cult.  I know that.  And I appreciate this rescue mission.  But I have to get myself out of whatever I stepped in.” I paused. “And there’s something I need to do before I go.”

            Clarence had no visible reaction and we sat quietly through most of the first inning. 

Matt Morris, long my favorite Cardinal pitcher, had a tough time in the first giving up four runs.  “They can’t afford to have him give a short outing,” Clarence said to me after Morris got the third out.  “The rest of the rotation has been struggling, and the bullpen has picked up the slack.”  His searching eyes turned to me.  “And Cubs are gonna knock him out by the third inning.” 

            I smiled slyly at him.  “I would not bet against Matty Mo.”

            “I don’t like you going back there.  But I understand if that’s what you want to do.”  He paused.  “If you’re not back in a month, though, I’m going to come at that place with any and all dirt I can dig up.  I mean it.  I will wipe it off the map.”

            “I think I’ll be back within a week.”  I said as people two rows over from us started yelling and heckling the big Cardinals slugger.  They shouted his name and talked about his wife, his mother, and everyone else. Typical day in the friendly confines of Wrigley field, I thought to myself.  Albert Pujols looked over at them and smiled before turning back to his practice swings. 

            “So.  You have something?” 

            I let the question hang in the air as the inning started and Pujols walked to the plate.  Finally, I said, “Yeah.  I definitely do.”

            “What?”  He asked as the first pitch sailed by Pujols. 

            “That would ruin the fun,” I said as the pitcher set himself for the second pitch.  As his arm came over his shoulder, the world slowed down and seconds before it happened, I knew.  I knew as the pitcher released the ball that this was going to be something amazing.  The ball sailed against its green backdrop for a minute and I turned my head to watch Albert Pujols begin his swing.  The bat came slowly and powerfully from behind his head toward the ball, which seemed to be bracing itself for the unavoidable.  With an ear-shattering, crispness, the bat announced contact and the ball suddenly changed direction.  It hung in the blue for ages before disappearing beyond the walls of the park onto Waveland Avenue.  When I looked down, Pujols had already rounded third base and was making his way home.  He crossed the plate and as he jogged toward the dugout, he looked back at the hecklers and put a lone finger to his mouth and smiled once again. 

            “Did you see that?” I whispered to Clarence. 

            “I definitely did.”  Clarence said with reverence.       

            Over the next seven innings, Morris set the Cubs down without much trouble.  He was a different pitcher than he had been in that one lost inning.  He would allow a hit or two here or there, but was always able to work around it.  As he strode off the mound at the end of the eighth, I stood and clapped. None of the people around me heckled me. They looked me over, dressed as I was, and thought it not worth the effort.

            Unfortunately, the Cardinals offense was not able to put together any other runs and Clarence left the game happy.  “That first inning sunk them.”  Clarence said trying to keep the smile out of his voice, but failing.  “Just could not get past it, magnificent homerun aside.”

            “I guess so.”  I said with an inward smile.  We shuffled out in the herd of thousands trying to get out of the park.  Many on their way to the nearby bars to continue the day of drinking they had begun inside.  As Clarence and I walked across Clark Street back toward Solomon’s, I smiled feeling the sun against my skin. We walked quietly for a block, until we saw a large, faded picture of Spiderman on the side of a one-story, plain building, nestled on busy Addison Street. The street was slowly becoming residential as we walked away from Clark. The street was filled with newly built condominiums surrounded by wrought-iron fences, shiny and black, guarding against the riff-raff that came to Wrigleyville.   And there in the middle of these expensive, new homes, with their small, but well-maintained lawns, stood this run-down monument. The paint was peeling from the siding, which was peeling from the building.  The dirty windows were filled with pictures of old movie stars and dusty books written decades ago.  Comic books stood in racks, looking as though they had been there, unopened and unread for at least twenty years. The man sitting behind the counter stared ahead, his glasses at the tip of his nose, his white beard unkempt and untamed. His cracked lips formed a smile, seemingly at nothing in particular.  Perhaps he was thinking of something that happened years ago—a happy memory that carried him through days where he sat in an empty store waiting for someone to come in and buy something. Or at least talk to him.

            “So…” Clarence’s voice sounded like it was coming from years ahead of me. “Are you sure you want to go back?”

            I looked into the building, and nodded.

            “Okay,” he looked at me, and then spoke pointedly. “Then I’ll see you soon.”

            “Yes. You will.” 

            He smiled and turned and began walking back toward Wrigleyville.  He sighed, and I swore I heard him say, “Always with the sense of duty.” But that was could have been my imagination.

            I walked back slowly, thinking, for the first time in a long time it seems. This didn’t have to take long. If I did it right, I could be done with all of this today, really. At least that’s what I thought before I came to the grill and tried the door.  Locked.  I knocked for what seemed like hours, but no one came. 

            It seemed this was suddenly going to take longer than I wanted.