Wrigleyville in need of reality check

May 9, 2004

BY JAY MARIOTTI SUN-TIMES COLUMNIST

Can't we all just decompress? The long, hot summer hasn't even arrived yet, and the once-charming baseball community called Wrigleyville already is swelled with searing tension, choking congestion and, now, a bloody tragedy a few steps from the famed peristyle entrance. If nothing else, the Friendly Confines should be a happy place that allows a reliable escape from daily stress and societal angst.

But this year, like never before, the neighborhood is overrun by too many people, too much alcohol and an over-the-top potential for trouble. This isn't to blame the deadly road-rage episode outside Wrigley Field on Cubs management, politicians or anybody but the fool who allegedly left the passenger's seat of a sport-utility vehicle and fatally shot a fan, Frank Hernandez. No, consider this an urgent plea to ratchet down the level of hysteria so a memorable season can be enjoyed.

A pennant race should be the thrill of a lifetime, not a venture into the dangerous unknown.

I have covered sports in this town for 13 years. I have covered events throughout the country and around the world, some in perilous places. And never have I seen a pressure cooker raging with the intensity of the square block bordered by Addison Street, Clark Street, Sheffield Avenue and Waveland Avenue. From the minute the Most Infamous Bartman Since Simpson fumbled a baseball intended for Moises Alou's glove, Cubdom has believed its long-awaited "Next Year'' was 2004. Fans purchased every available ticket, watched the front office increase the payroll to make critical deals and arranged to hang out on the North Side all season. The joint is jammed with 40,000 die-hards almost every day, making us wonder whether the workforce is suffering and whether teachers and professors know their students are playing hooky like Ferris Bueller. Know how preoccupied Boston is these days? Wrigleyville is obsessed with Cubness.

All of which would be a hoot if everyone would calm down. But people are running around wilder than a Kyle Farnsworth fastball, spewing pent-up anxiety. A few weeks ago, fans in the bleachers dumped loads of garbage on the outfield grass after Dusty Baker and Kerry Wood threw tantrums in successive games. In the taverns, never busier, drunks are starting early and staying late no matter the day of the week. Lots of people are coming to the neighborhood without tickets, for no reason other than to party. Much of the behavior is sophomoric; precious little is sophisticated.

I told some media colleagues the other day about my concerns. I wondered aloud whether Wrigleyville was a national headline waiting for newsprint. In the middle of it all were the Cubs themselves, complaining about suffocating media attention. Alou told a sportscaster that he urinates on his hands to keep them pliable, then blamed the media for running with the story. LaTroy Hawkins, who walked home a winning run last week, told a pack of reporters they were "vultures.'' Joe Borowski, whose pitches are the only objects moving slowly at Wrigley, lashed out at the media for wondering about his velocity. The scene seemed a bit crazy for comfort.

And then, 90 minutes after the game Thursday, with hundreds of fans partying in the bars and eating in the restaurants, a fan was gunned down in the street outside the most timeless, beautiful shrine in sports. Hernandez, 26, was crossing Clark Street when he nearly was struck by a Chevy Suburban. According to police, a fight broke out between the driver of the SUV and ''an associate of Hernandez.'' The unidentified associate hit the driver with a souvenir bat, police said. That is when a passenger emerged from the vehicle and opened fire, shooting Hernandez once in the chest and leaving him in a pool of blood on the sidewalk just south of the Cubby Bear Lounge.

For generations of Chicagoans, the geography hits way too close to home. Who hasn't been to the Cubby Bear? Who hasn't walked down that side of Clark? Who hasn't left the front entrance of the park and stared at that corner? And who won't stare at it now and think about the fan who was gunned down?

Once again, the image of the city has been smeared by another bizarre fan story. Folks around the country recall all the tales -- drunks leaping from the stands to attack an umpire and first-base coach at U.S. Cellular Field, a pack of Los Angeles Dodgers climbing into the box seats at Wrigley when a fan stole a player's cap, the clown who tried to attack pitcher Randy Myers at Wrigley, dangerous incidents outside the South Side ballmall -- and wonder about our DNA. What's sad is that the vast majority of fans are good, loyal, passionate people who treat Chicago sports as a generational responsibility. But the list of incidents is so long and staggering, our image is ruined. If gangsters once defined the civic image, now it's crazed sports fans.

The issue of crowd control must be addressed outside the park. It's amazing, given the sheer number of fans walking across major streets to shoehorn into Wrigley, that we don't hear about pedestrians being struck by rambling buses, flying taxis and other vehicles. I've seen parents quickly pull their kids onto the sidewalk as cars race by. There's no major venue in American sports so close to a busy intersection, with little room to maneuver on narrow sidewalks. And have you noticed the big crowds forming outside the players' parking lot? The space is cramped, like everything else at Wrigley, and any day now, a player is going to wheel his vehicle onto Waveland and hit one of these kids running recklessly in pursuit of autographs.

Solutions? Maybe the immediate streets should be blocked off, turning the area into a pedestrian mall before and after games. Yeah, and proposal-weary Lakeview residents are going to approve that one.

Sox fans, I know what you're thinking: "See, we're not the only ones with ballpark issues.'' I never said you were. Two years ago, my car was stopped at Clark and Addison when I saw several rowdies rush out of the Cubby Bear and jump onto the hood of a taxi. When the driver got out to stop them, the thugs rolled him onto the sidewalk by Wrigley's front gates and kicked him to smithereens on the bricks of the Walk of Fame. Shocked? Not me.

At the Unfriendly Confines, anything seems possible.