The street has settled quietly now under incessant drizzle of rains and doom of late Chicago October. We have been waiting outside for 90 minutes trying to get inside Jimbo's, a sport bar two blocks from the stadium. Ticket holder only for now they told us, the cold and wet group of 11 strangers who share fates of not holding any ticket. There is a Chicago police car parked on the next curb, with the police Lady fixating her eagle eyes on us. She's the curb nazi that scolded me earlier to take a hike from the impromptu crowd formed in front of the bar. I was wearing my nautical Ocean Line yellow jacket, the one that will save your ass when you are thrown overboard in a rough sea (been there, puked it); tonight though the jacket is a liability because it attracts the police like moth to the flames. "did you hear me !?! you are not allowed to stand here", on top of her lung. I know better not to argue with a cranky Chicago police and murmur quietly and follow the crowd moving half a block away. We would soon return to the same exact spot; thinking she has satisfied her need to be an absolute ass for the night and will leave us alone. We are right. No mo' problem with the curb nazi afterwards.
The game has already started and we peek envily to people inside enjoying the game and the warmth a well heated bar can provide. But we are still trusting the promise that they will let us inside soon after the game started. 15 minutes later, none of us are admitted in except for a chick with a playboy bunny costume that pass our line directly to the door and get admitted. Where are my high heels and mini skirt when I need them.
We watch the first inning like an abandoned group of refugee through the glass window outside. Fuck those fuckin' liars and I tell my homies to abandon this fucking place and go somewhere else. I am cold and hungry and watching a world series game outside, standing in the rain. Fuck it. We abandon the line and wish them well and move two blocks south hurrily lest we miss the game in progress.
We find our ideal bar, a spacious three room bars with plenty of TVs and packed with White Sox fan. I remember the sudden explosion of cheers and jubilation after Paulie's grandslam on the seventh inning taking White Sox leading the game 6-4 after several innings behind the Astros 2-4. I can actually feel the shockwaves generated by the full power of joy and hugs and hand clapping and cheers that fill the place.
We are chanting 4 more outs and calling Ozzie to bring the Big Boy out and close the game brilliantly like he did in the first game.
He dissappoints us; allowing the Astros to even the game to 6-6. I've never experienced a room collapsed from an emotional high to rock bottom so abruptly. The bar might as well be a church with almost everyone pray to God or their favourites deity to give us miracle in our next inning at the bottom of the ninth.
We are doomed now and we need our miracle. Despair quickly fill the vacuum of our silence.
One out.
Pod's taking a stand. He has only one home run this year and that was two weeks ago. But the heaven answers our alcohol soaked prayers, which must have been the sincerest prayer of all time, like the latin saying "in beer, the truth", and order Pod to take his second home run of the year and save us from obvilion. He does and once again the room erupted, even bigger this time.
We dance, jump and scream our lung in now noisy streets of the South Side "GO WHITE SOXXXXXXXXXXX", recruiting everybody on the street and on their homes to join us in our chorus of celebration.
What a night.
7-6, game 2, world series 2005 will be remembered as one of the classic in baseball history.