The Baseball Game

The Baseball Game

There are many things in my life I can proudly boast as an accomplishment. I’ve been able to snag Hannah Montana tickets at face value, and then have my picture taken with ex-Governor Blagojevich while we were waiting for our daughters. Or, front row tickets for Jimmy Buffett at Wrigley Field that I later sold at 10X face value. I’ve even managed to snag 18 tickets to the impossible to get “Wrigley Field Ice Skating” on New Years for family and friends. I’ve organized the only girl’s lacrosse program in Chicago, which is even more remarkable considering I have no clue how to play lacrosse. I figured out a way to rent a CTA train for the holidays and took 309 friends through the city on our own chartered “Santa Train” without anyone falling through the tracks or losing a limb. Delaney and Jack have both played a little league game at Wrigley Field. The list goes on and on, but apparently absent on the list is the elusive, “I got my boys in to a competitive baseball league in Chicago.”

It all started on a relatively warm February day when the Welles Park baseball sign-up was scheduled. Living in the city, we all know from experience that when the registration states ’10:00 a.m.’, in reality you need to show up hours in advance like a groupie waiting for their beloved rock star to appear. And in this case, the rock star was none other than an 80-game league for our sports crazy 5 and 7 year old. I inquired near and far, on Facebook, via e-mail, via telephone with the question, “What time do you really need to get in line at?” With answers ranging from “Whenever you get up” to “Move to the suburbs” and every variation between, we settled on a 5:45 a.m. target time. Yes, you read that right – Dave would draw the short straw and stand in line outside for more than four hours in a meager attempt to appease the sport gods and draw the elusive spot for both Jack and Max. Surely, no one would be crazier than us and actually get there earlier.

A mere hour later, Dave came home with his head hung low. “Bad news babe, there are no spots open for Jack, but I was able to get a spot for Max. The first person in line got there at 2:30 a.m.” What? 2:30 in the morning? Who is that crazy to park themselves outside 7 ½ hours before registration even starts? “Well, then it wasn’t meant to be, because there is no way I would even attempt to stand in line at 2:30 a.m. That’s nuts.” And with those words, we quickly formulated a Plan B.

Plan B comprised of finding yet another competitive baseball league, perhaps one without the snob appeal of Welles Park, to get Jack in to. “Dave, try Horner Park – I see signs for sign-up and they have a rolling sign-up, no crazy stand-in-line business.” Dave ventured out into the unknown, pointed the car towards Horner Park with a single minded focus on getting Jack into a ‘quality’ baseball league. Dave no sooner signed over the $150 check, turned to walk out, when a mom in line behind him started yelling and crying hysterically that the organizers were a bunch of crooks. Living in the city, and having had been under the spell of Blagojevich for too long, these were words as common in the city as, “Hi, how are you today.” Dave perked up his ears to hear the Treasurer exclaim, “Hey lady, I lost my job, I only do this for the money.” Only do this for the love of money? What about the love of baseball? And with that, Dave raced home and decided to do a little online investigation to see exactly where our check was headed to. I soon received a phone call from Dave, “Su, I can’t believe this. Horner Park is a bunch of crooks. Literally. The management team from last year are all in jail on embezzlement charges. There is no way that Jack is playing in that league.” And with that, we quickly formulated our “Plan C”.

We were hoping against hope to not be in a position to even consider the dreaded Plan C- Hamlin Park Baseball League. Hamlin Park is well known throughout the Northside as the best baseball league, and also the hardest to get in to. And to top it all off, registration was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on Valentine’s Day which also coincided with “Single Mom vs. Three Kids weekend.” Dave was off to Pebble Beach to work…err…golf, while I figured out a way to entertain all three kids to utter exhaustion. Dave called me up excited that he had come up with a plan, “Listen honey, I called my brother John and if you can take the kids to Schaumburg on Friday the 13th, John will meet you, pick them up, and take them to his house for an overnight. Just think, you could spend the afternoon in Schaumburg at Legoland, get rid of the kids for the evening and trek back to the city so you can get up early and stand in line outside in the cold for Hamlin Park baseball registration. Then on the 14th, after you get the boys registered, head back out to Woodstock, take the kids to Chuck E Cheese for Valentine’s Day, spend the night at John and Sarah’s, and then head home on Sunday stopping at Medieval Times to cap off President’s Day weekend. Sound good?” First of all, what part of Schaumburg sounds good under any circumstance? I’m fairly certain I car will stall when reaching the city limits and crossing over in to the suburbs. And for another thing, let’s remember Dave is in Pebble Beach, golfing (for work of course). Somehow the equality of our marriage is seriously out of kilter and I immediately retort, “Dave, I think I would like to work in California too.” To which Dave replied, “Be careful what you wish for.”

After mentally preparing myself for the better part of a week to stand in line, outside, for 7 ½ hours, Friday the 13th showed up with a vengeance. As I rallied the kids after work to get on their winter coats, I walked outside to the garage, to find out that the change in temperature was rendering my key in the garage side door useless. To which Jack replied, “Mom, I’ll get a broom to prop open the window so you can break in the garage.” It appears that while reading may be a struggle for a blossoming 1st grader, we are teaching the finer points of city living and street smarts. How many other 6-year olds know the secret of breaking into a garage? Upon leaving the city limits, I was amazed to find the car did not stall, but upset to find that it appeared I now had a flat tire. Thankfully with the run-flat tires, I motored on and simply ignored the blinking, flashing, warning lights on the dashboard. Seeing how splendid the day had already gone, should I have been surprised to find out that the major attraction at Legoland was under construction? “Miss, I’m sorry to tell you that the Jungle Ride is under construction, but here are free tickets to comeback before March 20th and enjoy the ride.” Let’s be clear, city folks try to spend as little time as possible venturing to the suburbs and this trip was clearly headed down the path of a Friday the 13th to remember – “Thanks, but you can keep the tickets. We will not be needing them.”

After finally exchanging the kids, and cars, with my brother in law, I headed back to the city in the hopes that I might actually be able to get a little bit of sleep before becoming “The first person in line at 2:30 a.m.” No sooner did I turn down our street in John’s car did I realize that this day was one for the record books – I had no key to get in to the house. While the broom works to break in the garage, the house itself it like Fort Knox, all tripped up with ADT wires and sealed shut for the winter. Thankfully, our neighbor Jill held the magic key to the house and with just a tad bit of effort to figure out which one of the 50 unmarked keys in Jill’s possession was actually ours, I made it safely inside to the comfort of my bed.

In preparation for my outdoor adventure, I did as any creature of comfort would do – I begged for warm clothing from anyone that would listen. While my winter work coat was long on style, it was clearly short on warmth. With snow flurries in the forecast, I needed the outdoor equivalent of a Snuggie. An acquaintance at work offered me her full-length fur coat. “Sandy, while I certainly appreciate the offer, I don’t think a full-length fur coat outside at 2:30 a.m. in the city is such a good idea. You might as well offer to spray paint a target on the back of me while you’re at it.” So I settled for borrowing Jill’s ultra-warm, Eskimo approved full length North Face jacket. With a few additional comforts added – like 7 hours of movies and television shows downloaded on my iPhone, three magazines, a book light, three pairs of gloves, two hats, one scarf, one blanket, and a folding chair, I was officially ready to become, “Super Mom”.

I slept fitfully in fear that my alarm wouldn’t go off and I would have to tell Dave that I was unable to get Jack in to the most competitive league in the city. Before you knew it, my 2:00 a.m. wake-up call arrived and I quickly donned my snow gear, I could easily have been mistaken for the Pillsbury Dough Boy or the Michelin Man with the amount of puffy warmth I had piled on. I jumped in the car and raced over to Hamlin Park in full anticipation of being the first in line and possessing the highly coveted spot for a seven year old. After rounding the corner on Hoyne Street, my heart began to sink as I realized I was likely not going to be the first person in line. I quickly scanned the side streets looking for a parking spot so I could race out of the car and jump in line. Of course, in the process of trying to parallel park the car in a very tight spot, I gave the car in front of me a wee-little love tap. Who knew there was someone in there? “EXCUSE ME! DID YOU KNOW YOU HIT MY CAR? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” What? Seriously, now I have to deal with road rage on top of Hamlin Park rage? “Miss, I apologize if I accidentally hit your bumper , but I don’t see any scratches or any damage.” “NO DAMAGE, I FELT YOU HIT THE CAR WHILE I WAS IN IT!” “Well, I’m sure you did, but now, I’m going to race over to Hamlin Park, get in line and we can discuss this later. Like when the sun comes up. Like in 7 hours.” And with those words, I was literally off and running while I heard her exclaim, “GET BACK HERE!” at 2:30 a.m.

With adrenaline racing through my body, knowing I was not first in line but under the shroud of darkness not knowing exactly how many people were really in line, I stumbled upon what appeared to be a settlement camp for the upwardly mobile within the confines of Hamlin Park. There were tents, sleeping bags, lounge chairs, fires burning in garbage cans. It was like a scene out of a movie, or more appropriately in my case, a horror film. I was half expecting to see Christopher Nolan yell ‘cut’ as a promo for the next Batman movie. But sadly, the 100 or so people milling around, and passed out in various snow angel positions on the ground, had my heart sink that I would not be able to call myself “Super Mom” and my well laid plans were suddenly awry. I inquired where the line ended, or started, and was quickly pointed to the “Lady with the Clipboard.” “Hi, I’m here to add my name to the list.” To which was almost immediately replied when finding out the age of my children, “Sorry, no more spots, that division is completely full.” Full? At 2:30 a.m.? Registration doesn’t even start for 7 ½ hours? After sulking, and then sulking some more, I finally inquired to those around me when they had actually gotten there. “Yeah, we set up camp around 7:00 p.m.” “We’ve been here since about 8:30 p.m.” OK, here I thought 2:30 a.m. was aggressive, these individuals had been camped out in the snow 15 hours before registration began. Sigh.

And so is the tale of Living La Vida Chicago. We’re not quite sure what Plan D is, but with news of my baseball demise, offers ranging from “Move to Oswego” to “Does Jack like bowling” to simply trying to figure out how I can be the Clipboard Lady next year surfaced. This was not my day, and it wasn’t even Friday the 13th anymore. Happy Valentine’s Day Su.