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

our section but in the first row.
    The place was packed. Loud chatter was constant, and between-innings organ music added to the ballpark ambience.
    The vendor yanked a boiled weenie and a moist bun out of his containers.
    â€œWhat do you want
on
it, slugger?” he asked.
    â€œJust ketchup,” Kev said.
    â€œKetchup?” the vendor retorted. “You must be an out-of-towner, ’cause Chicagoans don’t put ketchup on their dogs.”
    â€œWe’re actually from Cleveland,” Kevin said.
    â€œOh, yeah?” the vendor replied with a chuckle. “Indians fans?”
    We nodded.
    â€œYou have my sympathies,” he said. “I predict a Cubs–Indians World Series—in the year 5000.”
    We smiled, and Kev paid the guy five bucks for a $4.50 dog.
    â€œKeep the change,” Kevin said.
    â€œThanks, champ,” the guy said. “Go Tribe. . . . Hot dog here! . . .”
    â€œThat guy’s like one of those ‘Chee-ca-go’ guys,” Kevin said.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I thought he was gonna start saying, ‘Da Bears! Da Bulls!’”
    Kev with a Chicago accent: “Yeah, after all dose beef sanwiches, I dink I’m gonna have anudder hart attack!”
    We cracked up.
    Wrigley Field was a whole lot of fun. There’s no other ballpark like it. The outfield fence is made of red brick, and that brick is completely covered with ivy (green vines and leaves). The park is a hundred years old, and a large, green manual scoreboard towers in center field.
    Wrigley is the only major-league park that sits in a neighborhood. People live in condo buildings across the streets. You can see a bunch of the buildings behind the outfield bleachers. In fact, some people have constructed bleachers on top of the condo buildings. They watch the games from their rooftops!
    â€œThis place is awesome,” Kevin said through a bite of his hot dog.
    Kevin was a different person at Wrigley. He was normally a nervous Nellie, but Wrigley had a way of putting fans in a good mood.
    Except the two guys directly behind us. They were about nineteen or twenty years old—and obnoxious. One guy wore a Reds cap; the other a Joey Votto Reds jersey. Both were big muscular guys—like football players—with neatly shaved heads. They continuously heckled the Cubs, who were leading 4–2.
    â€œNINE-teen, OH-eight!” they chanted, referring to the year the Cubs last won the World Series. “It’s choking time, Castro!”
    â€œI heard Babe Ruth called this place a dump,” said the guy in the cap.
    â€œIt smells like one,” said the other. “And the hot dogs taste like the crap they serve in our cafeteria.”
    Kevin rolled his eyes. It was hard for us to ignore them.
    Down below, I saw Omar eating something out of a cardboard basket.
    â€œWhat do you think the Big O is eating?” I asked Kevin.
    â€œOh, I saw those,” he said. “Cholula Tater Tots. They’re potatoes with sour cream, cheese, and hot sauce.”
    â€œThe hot sauce is probably why he needs that giant Pepsi,” I said.
    Omar appeared to be enjoying himself. He was pointing to the field and explaining a lot to his dad. Like, “On a fly ball, the runner on third has to go back and tag the base.”
    Mr. Ovozi is from Uzbekistan, and I’m sure they don’t know much about baseball in that Eastern European country.
    Thankfully, we no longer had to deal with the Reds fans. After Cincinnati couldn’t score in the sixth, they left in a huff.
    â€œCubs suck!” one of them yelled as they walked away.
    â€œWhat sucks,” Kevin said to me, “is mean people. Let’s hope we never become jerks like those guys.”
    â€œI hear ya,” I said.
    Soon we all rose for the Seventh Inning Stretch. At Wrigley, broadcaster Harry Caray used to lean out of his WGN booth and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with the