Pre-flections of Game 3
Posted: Fri Oct 03, 2003 2:15 pm
GAME 3:
As I type this, the drizzle is wafting its way down to the bundled-up, hurried post-lunchtime masses on the damp streets below. The gray clowds are darting between the two antenna's atop the Hancock Tower. And the thermometer is holding steady at a crisp 48 degrees.
It's a cold, gray early-October day in Chicago, indeed.
However.
All will be forgotten and Mother Nature will be forgiven when the forcasted late-afternoon clearing clouds give way to the gloaming, and the collective din of el trains, program vendors, bustling outdoor beer gardens, traffic cop whistles, Ronnie "Woo-Woo", paint can drummers and the Wrigley Field organ reverberating between the three-flat homes, and beyond, begin to build between Addison, Clark, Waveland and Sheffield Avenues.
A fine sight it will be when I walk between the shadows of the newly-retired Ron Santo #10 flag and the left field bleaches.
A fine sight it will be when I look higher to see the divisional flags standing at attention in a wind-out, Northeasterly direction.
A fine sight it will be when young (Prior) meets old (Maddux)in a dual of power vs. presision, perfectionist vs. poise and proud vs. proud.
And a finer sight it will be when the Braves, from the south, will gaze up above the Centerfield scoreboard later this chilly evening to see a white flag, adorned only with a Cubbie-blue "W", being hoisted to the heavens for all of Wrigleyville to see.
(Of course, hearing Joe Morgan utter his first, "When I played, I was the best because I..." will bring all of the above to a crashing halt)
As I type this, the drizzle is wafting its way down to the bundled-up, hurried post-lunchtime masses on the damp streets below. The gray clowds are darting between the two antenna's atop the Hancock Tower. And the thermometer is holding steady at a crisp 48 degrees.
It's a cold, gray early-October day in Chicago, indeed.
However.
All will be forgotten and Mother Nature will be forgiven when the forcasted late-afternoon clearing clouds give way to the gloaming, and the collective din of el trains, program vendors, bustling outdoor beer gardens, traffic cop whistles, Ronnie "Woo-Woo", paint can drummers and the Wrigley Field organ reverberating between the three-flat homes, and beyond, begin to build between Addison, Clark, Waveland and Sheffield Avenues.
A fine sight it will be when I walk between the shadows of the newly-retired Ron Santo #10 flag and the left field bleaches.
A fine sight it will be when I look higher to see the divisional flags standing at attention in a wind-out, Northeasterly direction.
A fine sight it will be when young (Prior) meets old (Maddux)in a dual of power vs. presision, perfectionist vs. poise and proud vs. proud.
And a finer sight it will be when the Braves, from the south, will gaze up above the Centerfield scoreboard later this chilly evening to see a white flag, adorned only with a Cubbie-blue "W", being hoisted to the heavens for all of Wrigleyville to see.
(Of course, hearing Joe Morgan utter his first, "When I played, I was the best because I..." will bring all of the above to a crashing halt)