Foul Ball Frame-up at Wrigley Field by David Aretha Page A

swarming with people, many of whom were in Cubs clothes.
    â€œLet’s not forget the ugliest hex of all time,” Kevin said. “The Bartman Curse.”
    Poor Steve Bartman. He was just a regular guy, in a Cubs cap and glasses, rooting his team to victory.
    â€œBut he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Omar said.
    It was Game 6 of the 2003 National League Championship Series. The Cubs led three games to two over Florida. They were leading this game 3–0 in the eighth inning, with one out. All they needed was five more outs to reach the World Series for the first time in fifty-eight years.
    That’s when the Marlins’ Luis Castillo lofted a fly ball to left field. It was a foul ball near the stands, but Cubs left fielder Moises Alou felt he could catch it. He arrived at the wall and reached over to make the grab. But at the same moment, Bartman—who was sitting in the front row—tried to catch it, too. He got his hands on the ball, preventing Alou from making the catch.
    Bartman hadn’t realized that Alou was below him. He had been concentrating on the ball in the sky. He felt terrible for his mistake. Fans started yelling and throwing things at Bartman, and security guards escorted him out of the park.
    The Marlins scored eight runs that inning and won the game 8–3. They then beat the Cubs the next day to win the series. The whole episode ruined the poor guy’s life.
    Prior to that game, Bartman had been a Little League coach whom all the kids liked. After the game, he was getting death threats.
    People hated him—just because he had reached for a baseball. He had to go into hiding, and reporters staked out his house.
    â€œBartman didn’t do anything wrong,” Omar said.
    â€œYeah,” Kevin said, “but if he had been in the men’s room that inning, the Cubs would have gone to the World Series.”
    â€œAll I can say,” Omar concluded, “is I’m glad I wasn’t in his shoes.”
    As we drove further down Clark Street, Mr. Ovozi’s face lit up.
    â€œLook at this, guys!”
    Peering out the window of the Aztek, we saw it: the world-famous red sign, towering above us. “Wrigley Field: Home of Chicago Cubs,” it said.
    â€œWhoa . . . ,” Kevin said, wide-eyed.
    â€œAwesome,” Omar added.
    After Mr. Ovozi paid for parking (“Forty dollars!” he exclaimed), we finally got out of that darn car. Omar stretched his long arms and wiggled his fingers. Kevin, who’s kinda short, like me, marveled at the statues outside the old park. His favorite was the one of Hall of Fame shortstop Ernie Banks. “Mr. Cub” always had a smile on his face. He’s the guy who said, “It’s a great day for baseball. Let’s play two!”
    The atmosphere outside the ballpark was electric. The Cubs were six games ahead of the Reds in the standings with just eleven games to go. Fans could “taste” the playoffs.
    A group of young women in Cubs T-shirts clapped their hands and chanted “LET’S go, CUB-bies!” A trio of jazz musicians played “Sweet Home Chicago” on their horns.
    The smell of hot dogs was in the air, and the noise of the gathering crowd grew louder and louder. My body tingled as we waited in line with our tickets.
    But today, as I look back on that September evening, I’m haunted by our discussion of Steve Bartman. “I’m glad I wasn’t in his shoes,” Omar had said.
    Little did he realize that in less than three hours, he would be.

Chapter 2
The Curse of Omar
    â€œHey, hot dog here!” boomed the chubby Wrigley vendor. “Who needs one?”
    â€œI do,” Kevin said, raising a $5 bill.
    â€œYou got it, pal,” the vendor replied.
    It was the fifth inning, and Kevin and I were sitting in the left-field seats. We were in the lower level, in foul territory, a couple rows behind the Ovozis. Omar and his dad sat in