A Northside baseball fan gazes hungrily southward.
As a Chicago Cub fan, I kind of have a duty to ridicule U.S. Cellular Field, home of the White Sox.
The Cubs play in beautiful, historic, ivy-covered Wrigley. Wrigley of the friendly neighborhood, the hand-operated scoreboard, the live organ music. The White Sox play in a soulless mall filled with flashing lights and blasting, canned music.
Except: the hot dogs. Dammit, the White Sox have better hot dogs.
They’re not horrible at Wrigley, but they’re utilitarian. Workaday. The bun is usually on the stale side, and there’s the distinct impression that it would have tasted stale even back when it was fresh. The dog itself doesn’t have a great mouthfeel; your teeth dig through it okay, but they don’t enjoy the journey. The meat has a firmness that gives the impression that it’s irritated with you for bothering it.
And the taste. Well, like I said, it doesn’t taste bad. But it tastes like a pink tube.
As I type that description, it sounds awful, and I have no craving for one. But the hot dog is just one part of the equation. Add a gorgeous day, a cheap beer in a plastic cup, and some organ music on the breeze, and of course you’ll enjoy it. You have to get one.
You eat a hot dog at a ballpark because you eat a hot dog at a ballpark.
Much the way you’re a fan of a team because you’re a fan of a team.
There’s no logic to it. Whatever accident of geography or heritage placed you in those stands, you generally don’t change allegiances. Even when you start to realize what a mistake you may have made.
I still remember, as a kid, looking through the “baseball” section of the big encyclopedia in my parents’ basement. It listed, in reverse chronological order, the World Series champion from each year. My heart sank as I dragged my finger further and further down that page.
At that age, a Cubs loss would ruin my whole day, and I had plenty of days ruined. Sitting in the stands in the late innings, my empty nacho container at my feet, I would offer up my obsessive little prayer (“please let the Cubs win please let the Cubs win”), and it is through this practice that I developed my theological conviction that the Almighty isn’t concerned with sports scores.
Sox fans hate Cub fans. Their disdain for us can be summed up in the following two unassailable facts: 1) We’re all gay. 2) We only go to Wrigley for the girlwatching.
But I submit these fervent prayers of a child as evidence that Cub fans do live and die with their team. We’re not just at Wrigley to sunbathe and get drunk. Certainly not last April, at the coldest baseball game I have ever attended. We sat shuddering in our winter coats, our hot chocolates cooling before they reached our lips (it was too cold to have a beer). Hot dogs were primarily a source of warmth. But my fellow fans and I stayed till the last out. (Cubs beat the Pirates, 5-2.)
It’s not a matter so much of “standing by your team through thick and thin.” There’s something deeper at work, something that’s frankly out of your hands. When you’re a fan of a team, its identity curls its tendrils around your bones and drags you along, making you share its agony.
And this year there is more agony than usual on the North Side. If only the hot dogs were enough of a balm, but the superior dogs are on the South Side with the World Champions. Why do they get such excellent food? They don’t need it! Why do they get the scent of grilled onions wafting from every concession stand, while we get a little hand-cranked raw onion shredder? Why do they get vendors wandering the stands with big metal tanks of margaritas on their backs to squirt from hoses into plastic cups? Can’t they have crappy food? Can’t I indulge in a little bit of Soxenfreude?
I mean, listen to this. This is what the White Sox web page has to say about concessions: “The concession stands, located throughout the ballpark, offer an endless variety of meals, snacks and treats. Enjoy pizza, hot dogs, nachos, veggie burgers, veggie dogs, deli sandwiches, soft-serve ice cream, waffle cones, funnel cakes and much, much more!”
And the Cubs page? “Food and beverages are available throughout the ballpark at concession stands and carts managed by Levy Restaurants.”
See? Utilitarian. Workaday.
I never eat hot dogs outside of ballparks. It never really occurs to me to eat them if they’re not proffered by roving vendors. But I imagine the hot dogs at Sox Park are enjoyable even without a baseball game surrounding you. The buns are soft, the dogs supple, tender, and well-seasoned. And I bet they taste even better without the garnish of sour grapes I eat them with.
What’s more, Sox Park has Dollar Dog Thursdays. During Thursday home games, these hot dogs cost a mere dollar each.
(Here’s how to do Dollar Dog Thursdays at Sox Park: • Find your seat. • Hand a 20-dollar bill to the nearest vendor. • Tell him: “When my hot dog gets this short, bring me another hot dog.”)
So when I’m at Sox Park, where I find myself once or twice per summer, I grit my teeth and try not to betray any emotion while I watch superior baseball on the field with superior hot dogs on my tongue.
They also serve better crow.
And humble pie.
And “my heart out.”
But despite that, and the (admittedly) better sight lines, and the fact that it’s (admittedly) easier to get in and out of the ballpark, I am still not willing to admit that Sox Park is better than Wrigley. I’m sorry, but my allegiances have to stand strong somewhere.
The Banquet of Life is a bi-weekly look at one man's life through the food he eats.
