Day 2: All Skate
By day two the Hello Kitty Mafia was truly sheltered in the palm of Baseball Jesus. At a rest stop somewhere on the flats of Indiana we acquired sun block and toothpaste. (Though we also discovered a tube of sun block that had been with us since Annapolis, cleverly hidden under the driver's seat.) But the power of the Baseball Jesus extended far beyond providing toiletries...
We got lost in Chicago. Badly lost in a bad neighborhood. The stretch of highway we were attempting to take across Chicago on our way to Milly-wah-kay was jammed. Complete gridlock. So we exited the highway, seeking an alternate route. Unfortunately, so did a lot of other folks. Driving in a Porsche two inches off the ground amid a sea of trucks resulted in us missing a turn. Ten minutes later we were somewhere on the south side of Chicago.
Bunny pulled along side a patrol car of the Chicago P.D. and gestured for the officers to roll down their window.
‘Hi! Can you tell us how to get back to 41?’
The two police officers conferred for a moment, and then the driver leaned across the seat to address us.
‘You better follow us. You’ll never find it from here.’
So off we went. The police officers didn’t feel compelled to stop for red lights and stop signs, and since we were told to follow them, neither did we. It was a reverse police chase across the south side of Chicago, made more atmospheric by the Ramstein (‘Du Hast’) blaring from our speakers and the Adam-12 qualities of the Chicago P.D. (derived from the fact that they ride two to a car and wear old school uniforms). We were so far off-track it took them a good while to lead us back to our route, long enough for Bunny to wonder if they still remembered we were following them. But soon enough we were back on track and speeding north, thanks to the Baseball Jesus and the Chicago police.
A quick consultation with Mission Control confirmed that there was no Laverne and Shirley museum of any sort in Milly-wah-Kay. Though this news shocked and dismayed us, we trusted the Baseball Jesus to provide. And He did, big time.
Approaching Milly-Wah-Kay on route 94, Bunny spotted a billboard across the highway. Like a beacon in the night or a buffet newly stocked with bacon, it called to us, called us to… the Miller Brewery, to take a tour and walk amidst Eden. With his well-known two-cobra quickness Bunny grabbed his phone and dialed the number advertised. 1-414-931-BEER. Scant moments later Adelaide swung out into the left lane and began passing car after car. It was 4:00 and the next tour started in twenty minutes.
I’d be lying if I said we didn’t giggle like schoolgirls when the large Miller sign came into view as we crested the rise and dropped down into Miller Valley. Bunny when into convulsions and began honking the horn while I tilted my head back and screamed. Pedestrians stared, but what did we care? The Baseball Jesus was thirsty and so were we. We parked Adelaide and dashed inside to the ticket counter. ‘We’ve traveled many miles to tour your paradise on earth,’ I said, and thumped the counter top for emphasis. The smiling lady slid two tickets (Free no less. Free!) into our greedy monkey hands and told us to enjoy. And so we did, especially the delicious free samples. But we also realized we’d ran smack into another obstacle.
In planning this trip, we’d checked the schedules of ballparks in our line of travel to which teams were home. We paid no attention to which teams were visiting. When it Milly-Wah-Kay specifically we figured why try to get tickets in advance? Surely Miler Park wouldn’t be sold out? Who wants to see the Brewers play?
Twenty thousand-odd rabid Cubs fans, that’s who. The Cubs were in town to play the Brewers, and north side loyalists by the thousands had come to see them play. When the group for our brewery tour assembled I noticed that everyone was wearing Cubs gear. Everyone. I wondered out loud about our ability to get tickets, but Bunny was nonchalant. ‘We’ll just have to get them from scalpers.’
After the tour and a brief sojourn in the beer garden addressing free postcards* we hopped back into Adelaide and headed for Miller Park. The gift shop would have to wait until tomorrow; there was simply too much Miller merchandise for us to process before the shop closed for the day. It was t-shirt overload.
The first thing we noticed about Miller Park: not only can you drink beer in the parking lots, they sell beer in the parking lots. This only served to reinforce our already glowing feeling about this city. We strolled up to the ticket window on the off chance that some had become available at the last minute, once more trusting in the Baseball Jesus.
‘We need two tickets, anywhere in the park,’ said Bunny.
The clerk called up some data on his computer and replied, ‘I have two for $75 each, in this section behind home plate.’
Bunny and looked at each other for moment, silently reaching consensus, then Bunny turned back to the clerk.
‘We need two of your other tickets.’
Moments later we strolled away with two tickets, reasonably priced, for Section 214, Row 19. However finding the seats proved to be a trifle problematic.
*Actual text: We love you all but we’re never coming home. Send all Red Sox news c/o Miller Beer Garden. Don’t cry for us, we have found our bliss. P.S. Send women.
We got lost in Chicago. Badly lost in a bad neighborhood. The stretch of highway we were attempting to take across Chicago on our way to Milly-wah-kay was jammed. Complete gridlock. So we exited the highway, seeking an alternate route. Unfortunately, so did a lot of other folks. Driving in a Porsche two inches off the ground amid a sea of trucks resulted in us missing a turn. Ten minutes later we were somewhere on the south side of Chicago.
Bunny pulled along side a patrol car of the Chicago P.D. and gestured for the officers to roll down their window.
‘Hi! Can you tell us how to get back to 41?’
The two police officers conferred for a moment, and then the driver leaned across the seat to address us.
‘You better follow us. You’ll never find it from here.’
So off we went. The police officers didn’t feel compelled to stop for red lights and stop signs, and since we were told to follow them, neither did we. It was a reverse police chase across the south side of Chicago, made more atmospheric by the Ramstein (‘Du Hast’) blaring from our speakers and the Adam-12 qualities of the Chicago P.D. (derived from the fact that they ride two to a car and wear old school uniforms). We were so far off-track it took them a good while to lead us back to our route, long enough for Bunny to wonder if they still remembered we were following them. But soon enough we were back on track and speeding north, thanks to the Baseball Jesus and the Chicago police.
A quick consultation with Mission Control confirmed that there was no Laverne and Shirley museum of any sort in Milly-wah-Kay. Though this news shocked and dismayed us, we trusted the Baseball Jesus to provide. And He did, big time.
Approaching Milly-Wah-Kay on route 94, Bunny spotted a billboard across the highway. Like a beacon in the night or a buffet newly stocked with bacon, it called to us, called us to… the Miller Brewery, to take a tour and walk amidst Eden. With his well-known two-cobra quickness Bunny grabbed his phone and dialed the number advertised. 1-414-931-BEER. Scant moments later Adelaide swung out into the left lane and began passing car after car. It was 4:00 and the next tour started in twenty minutes.
I’d be lying if I said we didn’t giggle like schoolgirls when the large Miller sign came into view as we crested the rise and dropped down into Miller Valley. Bunny when into convulsions and began honking the horn while I tilted my head back and screamed. Pedestrians stared, but what did we care? The Baseball Jesus was thirsty and so were we. We parked Adelaide and dashed inside to the ticket counter. ‘We’ve traveled many miles to tour your paradise on earth,’ I said, and thumped the counter top for emphasis. The smiling lady slid two tickets (Free no less. Free!) into our greedy monkey hands and told us to enjoy. And so we did, especially the delicious free samples. But we also realized we’d ran smack into another obstacle.
In planning this trip, we’d checked the schedules of ballparks in our line of travel to which teams were home. We paid no attention to which teams were visiting. When it Milly-Wah-Kay specifically we figured why try to get tickets in advance? Surely Miler Park wouldn’t be sold out? Who wants to see the Brewers play?
Twenty thousand-odd rabid Cubs fans, that’s who. The Cubs were in town to play the Brewers, and north side loyalists by the thousands had come to see them play. When the group for our brewery tour assembled I noticed that everyone was wearing Cubs gear. Everyone. I wondered out loud about our ability to get tickets, but Bunny was nonchalant. ‘We’ll just have to get them from scalpers.’
After the tour and a brief sojourn in the beer garden addressing free postcards* we hopped back into Adelaide and headed for Miller Park. The gift shop would have to wait until tomorrow; there was simply too much Miller merchandise for us to process before the shop closed for the day. It was t-shirt overload.
The first thing we noticed about Miller Park: not only can you drink beer in the parking lots, they sell beer in the parking lots. This only served to reinforce our already glowing feeling about this city. We strolled up to the ticket window on the off chance that some had become available at the last minute, once more trusting in the Baseball Jesus.
‘We need two tickets, anywhere in the park,’ said Bunny.
The clerk called up some data on his computer and replied, ‘I have two for $75 each, in this section behind home plate.’
Bunny and looked at each other for moment, silently reaching consensus, then Bunny turned back to the clerk.
‘We need two of your other tickets.’
Moments later we strolled away with two tickets, reasonably priced, for Section 214, Row 19. However finding the seats proved to be a trifle problematic.
*Actual text: We love you all but we’re never coming home. Send all Red Sox news c/o Miller Beer Garden. Don’t cry for us, we have found our bliss. P.S. Send women.
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