Wrigley Field Archives - Life’s A Tripp

Road Trip to Wrigley: Still Lost

Road Trip part 5….Still Lost

We were back on the road again and somehow ended up on the Kennedy Expressway, where you have to stop and pay a toll. The toll booth went from about 6 lanes, merging into a 3-lane free-for-all. We travelled South on the Kennedy Expressway, and ended up hitting another, the Dan Ryan Expressway. We pumped in some more change and were on our way, not knowing where the hell we were going. We got off the Dan Ryan Expressway, and somehow ended up driving North again. We never really knew where we were, but we were never a block or so away from Halstead Street. We ended up driving past Comiskey Park, which struck me as odd, because from what little I knew of Chicago, I knew that Wrigley Field and Comiskey were about equidistant from downtown. I knew we were seriously lost. We took another turn and ended up back on the Expressway, and we were down to very little change left, so getting on the Expressway again was not the ideal situation. Before the day was over, we wound up on one of the two Expressways a couple more times, each time having to scrounge for change to pay the toll.

We happened to pass by a local YMCA, and stopped there to ask for directions. By now, it was late afternoon, and we had blown the better part of the day trying to find the Tempo or the hotel. As we walked into the YMCA, several workers looked at us like we were from a different planet. We informed one worker that we were lost and couldn’t locate our friends. “What are you doing in this neighborhood?” they asked, confirming our fears that we were in a rough part of town. After several minutes of discussion, the worker said, “Well guys, you’re going to have to stay here for the night. We’ve got some cots and blankets. We can’t let you go back out there tonight.” Eagle, Bart and I looked at each other and Bart said, “Well, we have to go find our friends”. “Sorry guys, we can’t let you leave.” I thought to myself, “This is the YMCA, not some youth detention center.” These YMCA guys were genuinely afraid for our safety in this neighborhood. After several more minutes of discussion, we agreed with the YMCA worker that we’d return for the night if we couldn’t locate our hotel or our friends.

With that, we were back on the road – and back on the Expressway! After a few minutes of driving, a car pulled up next to us, attempting to get our attention. We all stared into the other car, as the passenger pointed frantically down at the front of the rental. I could see her mouth the words, “Your…..tire…..is…..flat!” I exploded and began punching the dashboard repeatedly, yelling, “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! What the fuck else could go wrong today, a Goddam flat tire, that’s just fucking GREAT!!!” There we were, in the middle of rush hour, driving in more traffic than we had ever seen, with a flat tire. Eagle pulled the car over to the side of the road, and we got out to survey the damage. The front driver-side tire was trashed. We stood around, almost stunned. I don’t think any of us had ever changed a tire in our lives up to that point, so we stared at each other with a “What the hell do we do now?” look on our faces.

After about 10 minutes of digging in the trunk and pulling out the spare tire and jack, a tow truck pulled over in front of our car. “I’ll change that tire for fifty bucks.” The guy looked shady, and made us all feel a bit uneasy. Fifty bucks might as well have been $1000 bucks for us – I think I only brought $50 for the whole trip, and had only really spent about $8 total up to that point on a Coke, Desert Storm cards and a McMuffin meal. I owed Eagle about $10 for gas. After discussing with Bart and Eagle for a minute or so, we each put up some cash and decided to let the shady tow truck driver change our tire. I remember him saying, “You guys really shouldn’t be out here, it’s dangerous.” That calmed me down a bit, as again, here was someone who seemed genuinely concerned for our safety and our situation. It probably would’ve taken us an hour to change the tire ourselves, and it was starting to get dark. Twenty minutes later, the spare tire was on, the tow truck driver was paid, and we were on our way. I had initially blamed the flat tire on the piece-of-shit rental car it was attached to. It never occurred to me at the time, but 18 years later, thinking back on that flat tire, I’m pretty sure it was my dumb ass that caused it by slamming into that median the previous night!

It was now dark, and we were starting to get desperate. We had gotten off the Expressway and driven around aimlessly for another half hour, when we spotted the sign. Super 8! We instantly regained all the energy we had lost over the course of our frustrating day. We pulled into the parking lot, expecting to see the Tempo outside. When we didn’t see Todd’s car, we were concerned that they were still out there somewhere, lost, as we had been all day. We went to the front desk and Eagle gave the clerk the reservation information. We were instantly deflated with the next sentence out of the clerk’s mouth – “I’m sorry, we don’t have a reservation in our system for you.”

Stay tuned for Part 6…….Found

Road Trip to Wrigley: Separated

Road Trip part 4…. Separated

We were back on the Interstate again, still in a fog over the brouhaha that had just occurred at McDonald’s. A sense of anticipation started to set in as we neared our destination. It was still fairly early in the morning when we started to see the downtown Chicago skyline. We could finally make out the silhouette of the Sears Tower, and the excitement was building. We had previously decided that the first thing we would do once we hit Chicago is locate our hotel. The reservations were for Super 8, and we were even more excited when we were told the hotel was “minutes from Wrigley Field”. Remember again, that this is 1991, and we were years away from having navigation in the cars, or cell phones for basic communication. The plan was very simple – locate the hotel, it’s on Halstead Street. No problem, we thought, find Halstead and we’re good.

We instantly found Halstead Street and headed north. This was going to be easy, we thought, as we started driving through some of the most notorious, gang-infested, violent projects in the United States. We didn’t know it at the time, and I would even venture to bet that some of the guys don’t realize it to this day, how rough and famous (or infamous) that part of Southside Chicago really was. There were people walking everywhere, and to this wide-eyed, sheltered, 16-year-old white boy, everything appeared to be moving in slow motion and all eyes were on us as we drove by. At every stop sign or red light, terror set in. Loud bass was pumping in cars behind us. Shops with iron bars across their windows and doors lined the streets. To anyone that lives in or has visited Southern California, it looked like Venice Beach times 100. I became real concerned that our hotel might really be near this ghetto.

As we kept driving, taking in all the scenery, hoping we wouldn’t get shot, we realized that Halstead Street stretched on for miles, yet there was still no sign of our hotel. Eagle was driving the rental, following Todd in the Tempo. Each stop was an obstacle course, and we did all we could to keep on each other’s tail. The crazy Chicago bus drivers did not help our cause one bit. It seemed as though their protocol was to immediately pull into our lane after picking up passengers, regardless of whether or not we were already occupying that lane. We were almost sideswiped several times by city buses, as we had to adjust to this Chicago-style of driving. We drove North on Halstead for what seemed like hours, and eventually decided that we must have missed our hotel. We decided to turn around and head south to make sure we hadn’t missed it. Again, we ran the gauntlet of buses, gangsters and stop signs, but could not find our elusive hotel. Back North again we went. This circus went on for about an hour, and it was nearing midday.

We were at a stoplight, and I remember hearing Eagle say the words that would define the rest of our day, “Where did Todd go?” At every stop sign, one or two cars would always jump ahead of Eagle, but Todd was never more than a few cars ahead and easy to keep an eye on. This time it was different – the Tempo was nowhere to be found. Our mission turned from finding the hotel to finding Todd and the Tempo. How hard could that be? If we stayed on Halstead, we would eventually run into each other. That wasn’t the case. After driving North and South several times over the course of the next hour, finding the hotel became our focus once again, as we realized Todd, Dilly and Tripp would probably just wait there for us when they got there.

We found a Seven-Eleven and pulled in to ask for directions. In those days, that’s what you did without cell phones or Mapquest – you stopped into a mini-mart and asked for directions. I made my way over to the pay phone outside to see if I could find our hotel in the phone book and possibly call for directions. There were 2 or 3 payphones and 2 of those were already being used. Before I made it to the last open booth, out of nowhere, a man stepped up to the phone and started throwing in coins. This was no ordinary man, though. This was a pimp – no, a Super-pimp, wearing a bright yellow, silk button-down shirt, tucked into vibrant green slacks, topped of with a matching green hat. I have no idea the true profession of the alleged pimp, but from all outward appearances, this man was a pimp. “The pimp” gestured to me, giving me the “hold on just a second” motion. We all waited nervously as he finished his phone call. As he finished and hung up the phone, he turned around to us and asked, “How can I help you?” as if we were waiting for his services. Bart replied, “We’re trying to find our hotel, we need to use the phone.” At that moment, the phone behind him rang, and once again, he told us to hold on a second. He picked up the phone and as he began his conversation, we were all caught off guard as the pimp propped the phone between his head and shoulder, undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his shirt. He slowly and carefully tucked his shirt back in his pants all the way around and re-zipped and re-did his belt. All three of us just stood there bewildered, thinking, “Did that just happen?” The pimp finished his 2nd phone call and said, “You’re lost”. I thought, at any moment, we were going to be mugged or shot. “Maybe I can help you out,” the pimp said. I instantly thought of the movie, Vacation, when Chevy Chase stopped to ask for directions, as his hubcaps were being stolen. I don’t even remember what kind of directions the pimp gave us – I just wanted to get the hell out of there…

To be continued……….

Stay tuned for Part 5………Still Lost

Road Trip to Wrigley: The Showdown

Road Trip part 3…. The Showdown

Princeton, Illinois, population 7500. This little town, approximately 366 miles from Omaha, which boasts Ace Hardware as its major employer, was also the home to a quaint little McDonald’s. Only 2 hours outside of Chicago, we were nearing the Promised Land with plenty of time to spare. With the sun just barely peeking up over the horizon, and realizing since we had left early, we would have the entire day to explore Chicago, we decided to stop in Princeton’s McDonald’s for some breakfast. None of us were aware of the fateful events that were just minutes from unfolding that would change the course of this trip.

We had been on the road for quite some time, and none of us was in a real hurry. We took turns ordering, using the facilities, washing up and waiting for our numbers to be called. We were seated at one table, with the exception of Brad Dilly, who was at the counter waiting for his food. An idea was instantly hatched. I don’t know who thought of it, but Bart would carry it out. I wouldn’t say that most of us were in the best shape of our lives, but we were 16, and all healthy eaters. Dilly, the most portly of the group, and probably the most out-of-shape, didn’t look like he had missed many meals.

The plan was simple enough, Dilly would sit down and start to eat, and Bart would keep track of time. From first bite to last bite, we were going to time how long it took Dilly to eat a McMuffin. Could it be done in 5 bites or less, or perhaps in 1 minute or less? We were about to find out. Dilly brought his food around to the other side of the table, and we could barely contain ourselves. I jammed as much of my sausage McMuffin into my mouth as I could to avoid laughing. The wrapper was off, and we all looked at Bart, who was looking down at the second hand of his watch. Still unaware of what was happening, Dilly took the first bite. Bart broke down into hysterical laughter, and we all followed. “What?” Dilly asked, looking at all of us with a confused expression on his face. “Nothing,” Bart replied, now staring at his watch, and holding it with the other hand like a stopwatch. “FUCK YOU GUYS!!!” Dilly yelled, as he had figured out what was going on.

What happened in the next few seconds is the subject of Folklore, as most of us were laughing and finishing our own food. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw McMuffin hurtling through the air and the next thing we knew, Dilly and Bart were going at it. The fight was on! Food was all over the floor, expletives were shouted, and fists were flying. It seems as though the whole town of Princeton was staring at us in shock, wondering what had happened to disrupt their sleepy little town and their peaceful lives. Everyone knows that good friends don’t break up a fight; they egg it on until everyone has had enough, and this case would be no exception. As we laughed and cheered and food kept flying, Bart had decided it was time to step outside to cool down. Dilly wasn’t done. He bolted out the door after Bart, and with the precision of a guided missile, launched a whole McMuffin, which hit Bart square in the back. Bart was furious, “What the Hell, Dilly?!?!”

Inside the restaurant, concerned patrons started to make their way over to where the maelstrom had occurred. I was still in complete shock, as this had happened in the course of merely 30 to 60 seconds. An older gentleman came over and said angrily, “You guys need to pick this up,” to which Dilly replied, “who made you the fucking manager?” We hurriedly snatched up the rest of our food and headed outside to see what was going on. At this time, everyone had had enough, and the fight was broken up. You could still see the adrenaline going in both Bart and Dilly, and if you looked close enough, you could see a greasy outline of where a sausage patty had impacted squarely in the middle of Bart’s back.

We hopped in our cars again, but not before Todd snapped some pictures of the attempted murder weapon, a lone sausage patty, which we left in the parking lot of that Princeton, Illinois McDonald’s.
We were now only 2 hours from Chicago as we headed back out on the Interstate. We estimated that we would hit the outskirts of town in just short of an hour and a half, which would get us to downtown Chicago between 9 or 10 in the morning. We would have a full day to visit the city……..…or would we?

Stay tuned for Part 4………Separated

Road Trip to Wrigley: On the Road

Road Trip part 2…. On the Road

The first leg of the trip started off without a lot of fanfare. I think we were all just happy to be on the road, and excited about the trip. One of the most important things to remember is the fact that as far as technology is concerned, 1991 didn’t have a whole lot to offer, as computers still weren’t the norm in every household, and ordinary cell phone usage, as we know it today, was still a good 5 to 6 years away. Communication between the two cars was non-existent, so we had to pull up next to each other and yell out the windows to each other if we were thinking about stopping somewhere to get gas or food.

It was Tripp; I believe who started the hi-jinx in Todd’s car by hitting the flash on his camera out the back window at Eagle, driving right behind. “AHHH! I can’t see!!!” Ed kept yelling. It was pitch-black outside, with the exception of an occasional light on the Interstate. “They need to stop that, they’re going to make me crash!” Tripp must have sensed the frustration he was causing Eagle, and continued to flash about every 5 to 10 seconds over the course of the next half hour or so. “AHHH!! AHHH!! I can’t see – I wish they’d stop!!! DAMMIT!!! I CAN’T SEE!!”

Somewhere during the night, it was time to pull off the Interstate to take on fuel. We pulled into a gas station and started to gas up. This gave Eagle the opportunity to tell Tripp that he needed to stop flashing the camera, as it kept temporarily blinding him while he was driving. While both cars were fueling and Ed was griping, I was inside the mini-mart, buying a Coke and a few packs of “Operation Desert Storm” trading cards. As I walked outside, I opened up the first pack of cards to reveal the Holy Grail of all Operation Desert Storm cards – similar to what Honus Wagner means to baseball cards. It was none other than a General H. Norman Schwarzkopf card. General Schwarzkopf was the commander of The Coalition Forces in the Gulf War, and this card was a rare find. I was so excited at this momentous occasion, and Todd took pictures of me holding my Schwarzkopf card outside the car at the gas station. This was going to be the best trip, EVER!

It was now probably 2 or so in the morning, and before we got back in the cars, we all decided that we should take turns driving the rental, and it was now my turn to drive. Anyone who has ever ridden with me knows that I like to add a little element of excitement when I drive. Point A to point B doesn’t cut it for me, unless there’s something at stake. That being said, we all took turns giving the rental a good swift kick in the doors and a yell, “It’s a RENTAL!!!” before getting back in the cars. Because there was a median separating the two lanes of traffic, to get back on the Interstate, we had to take a right turn out of the parking lot, and do a U-turn at the nearest light. Todd went first, but I decided that I wanted to make things interesting and beat Todd back to the Interstate. Instead of taking a right turn and following Todd, I headed straight out of the parking lot toward the median in the middle of the road. I gunned the car and smacked the curb head-on, throwing the car up onto the median. I had misjudged things a bit, and I didn’t realize until that first “Bump” that this was no ordinary median. This median was a good 8 to 10 inches high, with a solid, square concrete curb. I got the front wheels onto the median, and Bart was going hysterical, “Fuck yeah BIT!!! HA, HA, HA!!!” Eagle is yelling, “What the fuck, Bit?” I continued to drive across the grass median, which was about 20 feet wide, gunning the car again and launching it off the opposite curb, scraping the bottom of the car before the back tires hit the road again. “IT’S A RENTAL!!!” I yelled.

With that, we were back on the road again, with still over half of our road trip left to go. Todd got back in front of me, and before long, Tripp was back at it again with his camera flash. The next few hours were without incident, but the next stop in Princeton, Illinois in the pre-Dawn hours of June 12th, would be foreboding…

Stay tuned for Part 3…The Showdown

Road Trip to Wrigley: Part 1

Road Trip Part 1

I feel the need to tell a story that has been kept in the hearts and minds of a few individuals, but hasn’t been told the way it needs to be told. I can remember so much of this special story, like it happened yesterday, and the more I think about it the more vivid the details become. You see, I can sit here and tell you that this is simply the tale of a typical road trip that six high-school buddies took to Chicago one weekend, but I would be doing the world a great injustice. If you break this story down into pieces, they would be insignificant. The fact that all of these smaller pieces, these side-stories, all happened in the span of 2 days, on one road trip, makes this story worthy of a Hollywood screenplay, and I want to emphasize, in no way am I using hyperbole with this tale.

Before we get started on the actual story, we have to start with the cast of characters. We begin with Todd Gillespie, the leader and consummate Chicago Cubs fan. Todd hatched this road trip plan and nurtured it through to fruition. Next, there was Bart Kukula, the crazy Polock. Always up to do anything, as long as it bordered on being illegal. Then there was Adam Tripp, the somewhat quiet, cool and confident one. Let’s not forget Brad Dilly, probably a genius, but one who always seemed to get in his own way. Myself, Don Bitler, the self-proclaimed smartass, always willing to drop a one-liner and offend someone at the drop of a hat. And last but not least, Eddie (the Eagle) Periseau, in whose memory I will dedicate this story. Tragically, Eagle’s life was cut short in 1997, as he lost his long battle with cancer.

The year was 1991. Operation Desert Storm dominated the headlines as the U.S. was finishing mop-up duty in the First Gulf War with Iraq, C&C Music Factory, Paula Abdul and Color Me Badd were on the Billboard charts, and Z. Cavaricci’s were still all the rage. The plan started off as an idea that Todd threw around. None of us were really Cubs fans except for Todd, and I believe he would have taken this trek on his own, eventually. It began innocently enough with, “We should all take a road trip to Wrigley”. “Yeah, that would be cool.” I really didn’t pay this any mind. I was only 16 and I knew my parents would never let me take a road trip with a bunch of other 16 and 17 year-olds. The idea, at least for a while, was just that, an idea. It was being tossed around in the spring semester of our junior year at Omaha South High School.

As the school year wound down, plans began to get serious. As more and more of us started to commit to the trip, I made the decision that this was something I needed to be a part of. I finally summoned up the courage to ask my parents. The worst they could say was “No”, and they initially did just that. My father, always fairly strict, thought the idea of a bunch of kids travelling so far from home was ridiculous. I decided to let them sit on it for a few days, but the seeds had at least been planted. A few days passed and I took my Mother aside and virtually begged her to let me go. She brought my Dad in, I begged some more, and finally my Dad gave me his permission in the form of, “Don’t fuck this up, kid. You’ll be grounded all summer if you do!” Tickets were bought and hotel arrangements were made. We would be leaving on a Wednesday, June 12th, to catch our first Major League Baseball game at Wrigley Field on Thursday, June 13th. The Cubs would be playing the hated San Francisco Giants.

We were to all meet at Todd’s house on Tuesday, the 11th, and we would be leaving bright and early in the morning on Wednesday. Since there were six of us, we would need two cars, and Eagle’s Mom generously rented a car. We were all gathered at Todd’s in the early evening, with the exception of Eagle. We were eagerly anticipating what type of rental car he would be pulling up to the house in. Eagle did not disappoint. He rolled up to the front of Todd’s house in a broken-down-looking, 1980’s Plymouth Reliant K. The car looked to be way past it’s prime and certainly not typical of a rental car. I wondered how and why, in 1991, a 1984 Plymouth would even be rented out. More importantly, looking at the condition of the car, we all wondered if this K-car had the guts to even make it to Chicago, an 8-hour drive. To Eagle’s dismay, we all started kicking the car. Getting angry, Ed yelled at us to stop. “Ahhh, IT’S A RENTAL!” we replied, and proceeded to keep kicking the car. Please make a mental note of the condition of the rental car, and the beating we were dishing out, as this will play a vital role in a subsequent portion of this story.

The anticipation was building as it was approaching 9:00pm on the eve of the big trip. We had all become restless and began wondering if we would be able to even sleep. “We should just leave now,” someone blurted out.
“Ha, Ha, Ha, yeah, we should.”
“You guys want to just leave now?” Todd asked all of us.
“Fuck it! Let’s just leave now!!!” we all decided.
With that, Dilly and Tripp piled into Todd’s Ford Tempo, Bart and I reluctantly hopped into Eagle’s Plymouth rental piece of crap, and we were off…

Stay tuned for Part 2…. On the Road