When you’re born in Chicago, you’re blessed and you’re healed the first time you walk into Wrigley Field


This week, someone on Reddit posted the above picture which I’ve seen reblogged on Buzzfeed listed as “A Beautiful Baseball Story That Will Make You Cry”. I’m not gonna lie, I teared up when I read it.

My dad was a huge baseball fan. When I was little, he would take me to Wrigley Field when the Cubs were playing the Cards. He was a fierce Redbirds fan and I bleed blue for my Cubbies. Any time they played, it was quite the rivalry in our household.

Five years ago this month, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two months later, he was gone. It was swift and painful.

That year, I don’t remember who made the playoffs and how well either of our teams did. But when the baseball season started the next year, I very clearly remembering how sad it would be that my dad wasn’t around to see another year.

Some of my fondest memories were from spending my birthday weekend at Wrigley with my dad hoping they creamed St Louis. Even though it was rare the Cubs were in contention at that point in the season, it was a sweet victory for me when they won, and I usually rubbed it in my dad’s face.

This year, I decided to spend my birthday at Wrigley. I have been since my dad died, but never against the Cardinals and certainly not on my birthday. I took a friend who likes baseball as much as me, but had never been to the friendly confines before. It was awesome to introduce someone to what I consider the happiest place on Earth.

The trip was dreary, and the game threatened to be rained out. But after it started, the skies opened up and it was a perfect day for baseball. The Cubs ended up dropping one to the Cards in the 10th. It was bittersweet, but I have to imagine my dad was somewhere watching over and wanting to rub it in.



About indie librarian

a recently MLS librarian's observations
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