Travel Blog

I went to my first – and probably my last – opening day game yesterday. There was a 50-50 chance of my not attending because, in the morning, I heard on the radio that there was a 50-50 chance of the roof being closed. I left the house with a book, and a fallback plan to spend a quiet afternoon reading in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel.

Getting on the exit ramp for Little Havana I could see the stadium, its roof closed. I headed for it anyway, hoping to harangue anyone I saw – club official, parking attendant, traffic policeman – about the absurdity of closing the roof on a partly cloudy day in the high 70s.

Stopped at a stop sign, I looked up to a miraculous sight: the roof slowly opening. I felt like Charlton Heston. It was as if Derek Jeter had seen me coming and said to his team: “Oh, no – if we keep the roof closed Swick’s gonna blog about us. Open it up, boys!”

I parked in the lot of St. John Bosco Church, where a man I assumed was a member of the congregation demanded $20. (In the past I’d given a small donation.) After walking a few blocks I joined a long line of Cubs fans waiting to buy tickets, the cheapest of which went for $37. I told the ticket seller that there had been $30 tickets online, which I hadn’t purchased (I didn’t mention) because they came with a $4.95 “convenience fee.” (A writer, I thought that a very poor choice of adjective.)

By the time I entered the stadium, over $50 the poorer, the Cubs had runners on first and second. I had missed the player introductions (putting me further behind in my acquaintance with the Marlins), the ceremonial first pitch, and the disastrous first real pitch, which my friends in Section 26 later told me had been smacked out of the park. On the bright side there was bunting (the decorative kind) and sunshine giving the field a glorious green glow. And the home run sculpture still gladdened center field.

The sight of people sitting in every section of the stadium was also uplifting until I went in search of lunch. I was used to walking up to the counter and ordering my heavily-breaded fare; at worst, standing behind a half dozen people. Yesterday the lines at virtually every concession impeded traffic in the walkway. I am willing to pay high prices for mediocre food but not to stand in line to pay high prices for mediocre food.

It was even hard to find a spot in my usual perch by the outfield bar. In the fourth inning I squeezed behind a group as they juggled sodas and hot dogs while searching for tickets to show the attendant – one advantage of a nearly-packed house – and joined my friends in Section 26. We were four, then three, then two, then one row away from sitting in the sun. It was, I had to admit, a beautiful South Florida afternoon, even for a hungry man surrounded by Cubs fans.