I’ve loved baseball ever since I was a little kid playing catch in the backyard with my dad. It was something that we always shared; even though that isn’t what gave the sport significance to me as a child, it encapsulates what the sport means to me now as a twenty-five year old man. The beauty of baseball lies in its ability to promote nostalgia. It causes me to think back to my childhood, kicking dirt in the dugout with Big League Chew bursting out of my mouth and making stupid jokes with my teammates. It takes me back to the days of being completely convinced that wearing my hat rally-cap style would give us the ability to come back and win. Baseball is where I learned how to relate with other guys, it taught me how to spit, and most importantly; it taught me how to properly eat sunflower seeds. Even the bad memories of baseball are worth embracing; the time I got chigger bites all over my nuts, striking out with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and watching the Cubs lose time after time. For me, baseball sums up boyhood better than anything else. I mean, what says ‘boy’ more than dirt, sweat, and spitting?

No team in American sports is more synonymous with losing than the Chicago Cubs; but yet no area manages to hide that painful and embarrassing history quite like Wrigleyville. Wrigleyville, a small nook in the northern side of Chicago, feels like a neighborhood that you could have grown up in. In recent years it hasn’t mattered that the Cubs are twenty games back, because they’re here to forget about the stresses of life. They’re here to sit in the sunshine and spend time with friends. Dubbed the “Lovable Losers”, many sports fans view the Cubs as a puppy that’s “so ugly, he’s cute”. Pity and mockery are things that surround the Cubs franchise. But, for a lifelong Cub fan, there is no happier place on Earth than the Friendly Confines.

It’s a special feeling for me when I enter the stadium; that first sight of the lush green grass of the field, the deep green of the outfield ivy, and the classic hand-turned scoreboard (one of only two left in baseball including Fenway Park). What I love most about Wrigley Field is that you can feel that she hasn’t changed much in her one hundred and one year lifespan. Sitting in the outfield bleachers, one can imagine young men returning to the states after defeating Hitler sitting in the stands enjoying a hot dog. I’ll never get over how old school Wrigley Field is. In the day and age of parks having stupid names like “U.S. Cellular Field”, Wrigley is a classic name and a quintessential American brand. I always loved the absence of a massive LED video scoreboard. As a kid, I adored the fact that the only music you’d hear played in the park is that of an organ. Cub batters didn’t receive walk-up music and I loved that; I don’t need to hear Jason Aldean when I’m at a baseball game. As someone who isn’t overly patriotic and has a passion for world cultures, an afternoon at Wrigley Field is one of the few times that I soak up the “American experience”.

We’re in the time of year that makes me think of the smell of freshly cut grass, beer and peanuts; the loud crack of hickory wood; and the feeling of the cool breeze relieving you from the heat of the sun. People complain about the pace of baseball. They claim that it’s too slow and that bores them. But, the pace of the game is what gives baseball its beauty. Going to a football, basketball or hockey game you might miss something if you look away. You can’t really visit with the people you go with; it’s much like going to a movie with friends, you’re physically together but you don’t get to talk at all. At a baseball game, the pace makes it conducive to having conversations and building relationships. You can really get to know someone during that three-hour game. There’s no game clock and that’s a lovely thing. In a time where people are busier than ever and are very strict with their schedules, buying tickets to a baseball game is like agreeing to take a break from the hustle and bustle of life. Time stops when you’re at the ballpark and every worry you have in the world seems to melt away.

As an avid learner of history, no sport is more historical than baseball. Stats reach all the way back to the late 19th century. The NFL and NBA can’t provide that for me. I love that I can look up who was the batting champion in 1884! I think it’s incredible that one of the sport’s most important characters, Ted Williams, took time out of his legendary career to serve in World War II.

Being a Cubs fan has provided a hefty amount of heartbreak and disgust. The 2003 NLCS that began with hopes of a World Series trip and ended with Steve Bartman getting death threats. In the 2008 NLDS, Cubs entered as Central Division champions and left with nothing to show but a 3-0 series loss to the Los Angeles Dodgers. But, with all that heartbreak comes the pride of having the greatest cathedral in American sports. With that said, it saddens me that the Cubs have sacrificed tradition by installing a new video scoreboard and robbing her of the one of the more signature elements of the park, the Wrigley rooftops. I don’t like change in general and it even disappointed me that they’re replacing the McDonald’s across the street with a huge, modern hotel. I find it a tremendous shame that in 2016, fiscal decisions seem to outweigh tradition and grandeur (though, I must admit that the past two seasons of walk-up music has been pretty fun).

With all this said, we’re in the midst of one of the best times of the year. Summer means a lot of things; beaches, swimming pools, watermelon, short sleeves, no school, but most importantly it means it’s baseball season again. Few things give me greater joy than stepping off the L at the stop labeled Addison on the red line in North Chicago. Walking past small run down shops selling t-shirts and ball-caps. Then you approach the large red main entry marquee reading “WRIGLEY FIELD HOME OF CHICAGO CUBS”. That is your warm welcome to the North Side of Chicago. Despite the Cubs proving me wrong time after time, I refuse to stop saying this same phrase each and every spring; “This is the year”.