The Chris Moeller Archives

Cedar Rapids Cub Fan/Dork Expo 2007 – by Aaron Moeller

Sent on a mission from fellow blogger David Levenhagen, my girlfriend Becky and I attended the Cedar Rapids Kernels baseball game on Thursday night to see former Cub secondbaseman and surprise Hall of Fame selection Ryne Sandberg who was in town managing the Peoria Chiefs. Since the death of my paternal grandparents, Dave and Becky, along with my cousins in Davenport, including assistant blogger, Nick Dee, have the shared distinction of being the only Cub fans allowed into my privileged inner circle.

Dave came to Cedar Rapids over the 4th of July weekend – the last time the Chiefs were in town – and scouted out the place for potential autograph opportunities. But with a young daughter and expecting wife, he asked me for this favor. Becky and I, equipped with official Major League baseballs purchased at Dick’s Sporting Goods were outside the stadium standing in line a good forty minutes before the gates opened.

I was feeling pretty good as my Cincinnati Reds had just taken two of three games from the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field, but I didn’t wear any of my Cincinnati Reds clothing. On Tuesday I had attended an afternoon Kernels game with one of my bosses. (Counting last Saturday’s concert – referenced on this blog Thursday – this was my third visit to a minor league baseball park in the last six days.) For that game I showed up at the ballpark attired in my authentic mid-90s Barry Larkin Reds jersey, garnering no comments from the obviously intimidated crowd, but I did receive many appreciative stares and the respect of hundreds. On this Thursday night, however, for the first time ever, I didn’t want anyone to know I was a Reds fan.

Nothing, I thought, would be more embarrassing than being an obvious Reds fan standing in line for Ryne Sandberg’s autograph. In honor of that same day’s announcement of a new Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band album in October, I wore my E Street Tour 1999 t-shirt. But even then, I was concerned my ultra-cool Boss tee would be neutralized if I was seen as one of those mousy, parents’ basement residing, Cub fan dorks. For my pal Dave though, no favor is too large.

Cub fans are their own kind, as you may know, and they were out in full force at the Vets Memorial gates. Most of the autograph-seekers standing in line were the obvious college-age dudes who worship Wrigley Field for its overpriced, smug, self-impressed, frat party atmosphere. But there was also plenty of representation from the other half of Cubsville, too – the pathetic, uninspired but sweet-natured fans who see in the Cubs the comforting reflection of their own losing qualities. When we first arrived, we were two of seven impatient autograph seekers. Unsurprisingly, 14% of us were wearing a Jimmy Buffett concert tour t-shirt. This is appropriate as Jimmy Buffett concerts are known for their many fans who greatly enjoy drinking and sort-of like music, just as Wrigley Field is know for its many fans who similarly enjoy drinking and sort-of like baseball. (Please note that I put neither Becky nor Dave in these categories. They’re the rare good ones. No offense to either of you, but please understand this blog entry is cheaper than a therapist for my irrational, misdirected virulence.)

In line with Cubs fans proved to be a good place to hear dorky comments like "Have you seen This Old Cub. It’s amazing." This Old Cub, for those who don’t know, is a documentary film made about former Cub thirdbaseman and current broadcaster, Ron Santo, directed by his son. Santo, who lost his legs to diabetes, is relentless in his attempt to shamelessly evoke sympathy in his continuing attempt to sneak into the Hall of Fame, where he doesn't belong. It's a crafty and lowdown plan that so far hasn’t succeeded. Santo, of course, after years of obscurity, has now taken Harry Carey’s symbolic place in the hearts of Cub fans. Cub fans, you see, have a weakness for aging broadcasters who mangle Spanish names and miss half the action on the field. But no, wiseass, I haven’t seen the movie. Who knows – maybe it’s good.

When the gates opened, we rushed to the visitor’s dugout and waited another forty minutes for Sandberg. He apparently signs autographs for twenty or so minutes every night. (Apparently, the twenty minutes leading up to the first pitch of a baseball game is not a busy time for a manager.) When Sandberg finally appeared, our eyes met. He sensed danger and recognized a not-so-simpatico presence in the line. He nervously signed the first of the ebay-bound balls handed to him and then scribbled his illegible hand for the numerous children who had budged in front of us. I had long and carefully planned out what I wanted to say to the man. I would tell him that I enjoyed that time he hit that home run in the World Series. It would be a sharp and sarcastic comment. It would be biting – the ultimate knife in the back, the reminder of championship failures, the curse shared by Hack Wilson, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and all those other 98 summers of Cubs players for whom futility has destined for obscurity.

But what I saw in an aging but stoic face was the compassion of a man who loved baseball and his fans. A man who could be counted on to please a long line of fans every night, all summer, in medium-sized cities all over the Midwest. And who was I fooling? The warmest of my own memories often involve watching baseball with Dave, with my grandparents, and a newer era with Becky. "Thanks for signing, Ryno," were the words that spilled involuntarily from my lips. "I appreciate it."

Then Becky and I grabbed our seats on the third base side. We said hello to another buddy from childhood – a guy who always loved the Cubs and wanted another glimpse of his hero. We enjoyed a beer or three and watched the rookie manager in action. The Peoria defense had three errors in the first four innings and I knew that this was more of what’s beautiful and eternal about baseball and that all is still right in the world.

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