1984 was to be the year of the Chicago Cubs. No lights had yet been built in Wrigley Field. Only a few small bleachers adorned the rooftops of buildings across the street of the outfield. Rick Sutcliffe had pitched an amazing season to bring the Cubs within arm’s reach of the World Series.

So close…

A Christmas story by David Lindstrom – 1984.

– – –

“It wasn’t yet their time.” How many nights had the round little woman made the trip up the back porch steps, climbing the worn stairs to the frozen tar roof? Traversing the black void, her eyes rested on the structure that took up the view to the west. The scene was always the same. Only the colors would change.

Adjusting her position so as to avoid the glare of the street lights below, her mind again began its pilgrimage. With the seasoned skill of baseball heroes past, her thoughts soared out across Sheffield Avenue, over the outer wall (which only a few screaming hardballs had managed to clear), past the asphalt between outfield decks and over the vine‑infested right field fence (for years carefully studied by left‑handed bat wielders). She was again free to roam that sacred domain, better known as Wrigley Field.

Like thousands of others, this woman was part of that quiet association of Chicago Cubs. No, these were not players (though this fellowship included many players), but Cubs ‑‑ those who made up the life blood of a team of which the athletes were the organs. Players would come and go. But Cub is north side Chicago. It is a calling to which only a minority of the wearers of Cub uniforms have attained.

The stadium, be it empty or full, belonged to the woman. This was her world. Here, she was safe from the pressures of trying to avoid the complaint sessions of fellow Billing Department employees who were never satisfied with their Christmas bonus. Safe from the Christmas dinner invitations of well‑wishing neighbors and church people. In her world she did not have to be pulled into the demands of holiday frenzy, which threatened her equilibrium.

“Their time is still coming.” The realization settled on her in quiet confidence. Indeed, after decades of waiting, of hopes shattered in defeat, it seemed that this truly was the year of the Chicago Cubs.  The elements were there. They were having a good season. True, the woman had seen many good seasons. But this one was different. The Cubs had been building since ’69. Somehow everyone seemed to know that 1984 could be the year. Even the fans who had abandoned the Cubs during the losing years were back. No more Cubbies jokes were to be heard. Cub fever had again taken Chicago in plague proportions.

But the Cubs didn’t go all the way. Winners of the National League East — nothing to be laughed at. But the searing comments were again heard. I knew they would blow it in the end. They always do… Curse of the Billy Goat… Even the faithful woman’s hopes started to sink in that horrid sixth inning of Game-5. By the seventh inning, the winds of fate had again taken their terrible turn. And in that moment she knew that it was not to be.

In the heart of a true Cub like she, it took weeks for the spirit of optimism to thaw the cold reality.  But eventually her loyalty was set aflame again. This defeat would serve only to strengthen the team for next year. She would yet see her beloved ball park dressed in blue and red banners, crammed to capacity with colorful bodies. She would yet experience the exhilaration of the deafening roar of victory. Wrigley Field would have its World Series.

A slight cool breeze carried to her ears the barely audible melody of Deck the Halls from some department store recording, broken occasionally by the rising whirr of an accelerating Clark Street bus. As she shook off a bit of chill from her shoulders she became aware of a sensation that she was not alone on her roof top plateau. Looking back, she caught the form of a wiry old man ‑‑ maybe the caretaker? But no, she did not recognize this person. Then again, she did. She could feel her heart pumping. Her muscles were tense. She was trapped.

He started to move toward her, calling out a friendly greeting. His voice was soft and firm, even a bit lighthearted.

She breathed easier. The man looked so familiar. Even from a distance his expression was calming. He could have been one of her neighbors. Maybe he too was a pilgrim to this tranquil spot. She cautiously moved toward him.

He was now standing, arms crossed, staring not at her but at the majestic stadium.

She studied his bushy silver hair that, at some point during the day, must have been combed back. She followed the strands to where it disappeared under the upturned collar of his torn brown corduroy coat. Worn penny loafer shoes jutted out from his baggy gray pants. “Peaceful, isn’t it?” she ventured.

Without redirecting his gaze, he responded, “Not many care.”

She wondered what he meant. She had often thought about those others who had crowded this roof top during the playoffs. During these times her holy place was decimated. She pictured the scene — neighbors who had been granted access, suburban businessmen and their families who had paid dearly for space on the roof — some staking their places on the few rows of recently constructed bleachers, others arguing over lawn chair seating arrangements. She would not participate in the foolishness. She contented herself with TV images of the playoff games and the radio voice of the prophet, Harry Caray.

Even during regular games, neighbors and their friends often crowded the roof to escape a gate fee. Only during those dead seasons was there enough room for her to partake of the rooftop Cub experience in relative tranquility. But on evenings such as this, with no games being played, she had the whole sports structure to herself. For her it was rejuvenation. But she never knew of others to be interested in the empty stadium. Token fans didn’t care about such things.

“You’ve been here before?” she finally asked. Somehow she knew the answer. Though no street light shined directly on him, she was able to trace the deep lines of his face. For some reason, he looked natural here. He looked as if he was as much a part of this place as the soapy looking white stone carving of the fourteen-inch ledge that bordered the roof. “Some have seen me. Others will not.”

As two snowflakes settled, then melted on her face, a childhood scene was brought to her mind by his reply. She was sitting in a Sunday morning Mass with her father who had dozed off. The priest was reading from the Bible. Just as he read the words …that seeing, they mayest not see…, her father’s glasses fell off and he jerked awake.

The woman became a bit uncomfortable. Who was this person? Her words came instinctively. “The best view outside of the park. Only time you can’t see home plate perfectly is late in the season when the shadows cover it in the eighth and ninth innings.”

“It’s a lonely vigil you keep,” the old man said.

She looked up to find his sorrowful eyes fixed on her. It was a look not much different than that of her father when he used to hug her good night as a little girl. In her father’s eyes, she had often felt a yearning to protect her — held back by the realization that he must allow her to develop into her own person.

The distant department store music tape was finishing another round of O Come, O Come Emmanuel. Her thoughts raced. She felt threatened by this man. At the same time she had the urge to throw her arms around him and to cry on his shoulder. The speckled pattern of city lights began to blur in her eyes.

She fought to regain control. “Rick Sutcliffe stayed on,” she blurted. “The Pitcher. I knew he would. He loves Chicago.” She turned toward the stadium and fixed her eyes on the yellow flag pole that marked the right field boundary. The frozen rope lightly clanked against the aluminum alloy as the passing wind played it like an instrument. The dark sky was now a shade lighter as the air was filled with snowflakes.

Already his shoulders and collar were white as the man said, “Rick Sutcliffe has done much. And he will do more. But it will take one greater than he to bring joy to your heart.”

The words struck deep. In a few short sentences this familiar stranger had scaled the walls which had taken her so long to build. Something deep inside her leapt when he had said these things. Much as she struggled against them, her memories of childhood Christmases came flooding in. She thought of how she cried when she watched this year’s Christmas with Kenny Rogers TV special. How she longed to be with family or friends. But she feared them, as well as herself. She could not even understand these emotions. She could only suffer through them. She drew a breath. “Are you talking about God?”

“Emmanuel,” he replied. “God With Us — God with you.”

She looked again at his compassionate expression. As if her walls were turning to sand, a peace began to fill her. She had somehow come to a resolution — one for which she had longed all her life.  Something had been missing. She had been afraid to think about God.

She felt as if this man was gazing at all the shortcomings in her life — yet, with understanding. She felt as if he ‑‑ and God ‑‑ accepted her anyway. She turned again toward the monolith across the street. Behind her, the last of the Christmas shoppers passed in a loud rumble as a train rolled along the elevated tracks.

Something had changed that night. No, not Wrigley Field. It looked the same as it had during countless other snowfalls. The velvet white roofs of adjacent three‑flats formed their same mosaic. The woman slowly allowed her sight to roam to the brick structures to the west of Wrigley Field. The lights were hazy in the snowfall. She suddenly realized that she felt differently about her landscape. Her sanctuary had been enlarged. No longer was she bound to travel within the perimeter of Cubs Park. She thought of those families beneath her feet, in the apartments below. Had they felt this sort of peace all along?

She turned to the old man, only to find that he was not there. She quickly surveyed the roof top. Without thinking, she started walking toward the hatch from which the wooden stairs descended. She hadn’t taken two steps when it hit her. There were no tracks! She threw a look behind her to see that her own tracks in the eighth‑inch layer of snow were as ink blots on a page. But hers were the only marks on the white blanket! Her heart was again pounding. She found her whole body shaking. Without any conscious effort she dropped to her knees, staring at the untouched sheet of snow. She carefully reached down and scraped up a handful, as if it was made of pure gold. The stinging to her hands felt comforting ‑‑ even purifying.

As long as Chicago remains Chicago, there will be a Wrigley Field. And as long as Cub fans have their say, there will be no lights in the stadium. Good and bad seasons will pass. But there will always be that core of faithful supporters, which is what Cubs is all about. And within this throng will be a certain woman, as long as her health remains. She will always love her Cubs. But her joy will be complete, for she knows that God loves a Cubs fan.

Copyright © 2016 David Lindstrom. All rights reserved.