Foul Ball Frame-up at Wrigley Field (4 page)

My dad shook Brian's hand, and Kevin and I exchanged excited glances. We had learned the guy's name! The question now was, how would we get ahold of him? We asked students in the dorm, but no one knew his cell phone number.

Kevin started to panic again.

“We've got to find this Utley guy by tomorrow,” Kevin said. “If the Cubs blow the division, fans are gonna come down on Omar like an atomic bomb.”

As we lunched at Papa Dino's, our fears began to morph into reality. Fans in the restaurant cheered as they watched the Reds tee off on Cubs pitching. After two innings, it was 9–0 Reds. This game was all but over, meaning the Cubs and Reds would be tied for first place. Their Sunday afternoon match-up would decide the division winner.

“There's only one thing we can do,” my dad said. “Go to Wrigley Field for Sunday's game—and find Blake Utley.”

A chill was in the air. When we arrived at Wrigley Field at noon on Sunday—after spending the night at a Motel 6—it felt much different than our previous visit. The last time, it was a sunny, summery day. Fans had a skip in their step and wore happy-day expressions.

Now, cool October winds blew through the Windy City. The sky was overcast, and so were the faces. Fans, many dressed in their Cubs jackets and wool hats, looked serious, worried. They understood the magnitude of the game.

Two middle-aged men discussed the matter while buying peanuts outside the ballpark.

“If I were a normal fan,” the one guy said, “I'd be like, ‘Hey, we got a chance to make the playoffs!' But all I can think about is that we're about to witness another Cubs collapse.”

As fans descended on the ballpark, we could read their minds. Omar, they were undoubtedly thinking.
That darn kid Omar. We wish he never existed.

My dad led Kevin and me to Wrigley Field's main gate. We did not have tickets, but my dad had scored an appointment with the head of Wrigley security.

Soon, we were sitting in an old, cramped office deep inside the ballpark. Bob Murphy, a round-shouldered man with a bushy mustache, introduced himself. As Kev would say later, “He looked like one of those ‘Da Bears' guys.” To my surprise, he tried to help us.

First of all, Bob actually confirmed that Blake Utley had attended the Friday night “Omar game.”

“Yep, there's his name,” Bob said, showing us his computer screen. “We mailed tickets to the residence of Blake Utley on September 5 for the September 22 game.”

“It says Section 102, Row 21, Seats 1 and 2,” Dad said, looking at the screen. “Where is that?”

Bob handed us a color-coded seating chart and pointed to the seats. It was right where Kevin and I had sat.

“But what about this game?” I asked. “Where is he sitting?”

Bob looked up Utley on the computer but came up empty. This time, Utley hadn't bought tickets from the Cubs online.

“Either a friend ordered the tickets or they got them from someone else,” Bob said. “Or he's simply not here.”

“No,” my dad said, “he's gotta be here.”

“Look,” Bob said to my dad. “We'd love to help. Nobody in the Cubs organization—from the owner to the manager to the players—wants Omar to take the heat. But that cell phone photo only shows Utley's backside. We don't know what the guy looks like.”

“But
we
do,” I said, pointing to Kevin.

“Then it's time to play detective,” Bob said, addressing Kevin and me.

He handed all three of us ballpark ID cards to wear around our necks—as well as walkie-talkies.

“You're on a mission,” Bob said. “March around the ballpark, from the home plate seats to the center-field bleachers. If you find Blake Utley, hit that red button. We'll send a security team ASAP.”

“We can do that,” I said.

“Good!” Bob said. “I want to find this guy—and get him to confess—before this game ends. And if we do, I'll let the media know immediately.”

“Yes, sir!” Kevin said.

And with that, we began our mission. Kev and I zipped up our Indians jackets and pulled on our wool hats. Together with my dad, we dashed out to the concourse area.

“When I last saw Omar,” I told my dad, “the Cubs were four games up and he was devastated. If the Cubs lose this game and the curse becomes real . . . I mean . . . he's gonna be. . .”

“I know, Joe,” Dad said. “We got to find this guy.”

It was 1:20, a few minutes before game time. Many in the sold-out crowd had settled into their seats, but thousands more were still pouring in. As an opera singer sang the National Anthem, we returned to the “scene of the crime”: the left-field seats. We tried to move quickly, but it was hard to maneuver through the heavy crowd.

“You've got to be Walter Payton to walk around here,” my dad said, referring to the great Chicago Bears running back.

Eventually, we reached Section 102.

“Do you see him?” my dad asked.

Kev and I walked to the front row and looked upward.

“Man, it's just a sea of faces,” I said, worried that we might not find our POI.(That's detective talk for “person of interest.”)

“Look for the red,” Kevin said.

We saw Reds fans in Section 102, but none of them were Blake Utley.

“You're sure he's not here?” Dad asked.

“Pretty sure,” I replied.

“I remember the aggravating smirk on his face,” Kevin said. “When I see it again, I'll know.”

We moved on, circling the ballpark. Our passes allowed us to go anywhere. After we navigated the lower level, we walked up the long ramps to the upper deck. It was freezing up there, with strong winds whipping in off Lake Michigan. We toured the upper level, looking and looking. . . .

Baseball fans come in all varieties, I was thinking. I saw three nuns huddled together under a blanket. A wide-eyed Latino boy wore his baseball glove, optimistically thinking he would catch a foul ball. We even saw a couple of boys our age, holding up a sign. “Win It for Omar,” it said. Kevin appreciated the support. “Thank you,” he cried out to them.

We circled the lower and upper levels once each, with no sign of Blake Utley. Meanwhile, Joey Votto smashed a two-run homer, putting the Reds up 2–0.

“The way the Cubs have been hitting,” a peanut vendor told a fan, “those two runs may be all the Reds need.”

Kevin started rubbing his tooth—a sure sign that he was getting worried. If the Cubs lost this game, the “Curse of Omar” would be all over the TV news. People in Europe, Asia, even Uzbekistan—watching on CNN—would see our pal's face on television, with the word “Curse” underneath it. My dad could see the frustration and stress on my face.

“Are you okay, Joe?” he asked.

“What if we don't find this guy?” I replied. “Today or ever? What if Brian got everything wrong, or what if Utley denies being involved?”

“I'm afraid Omar's gonna go into hiding forever, like Steve Bartman,” Kevin said. “I'm afraid we'll never see him again.”

Our concerns made my Dad even more determined.

“Let's keeping searching,” Dad said. “Let's get this guy.”

We continued looking, marching at a faster pace. The task seemed impossible; more than forty thousand fans were packed inside. Meanwhile, we were almost out of time. With Josh Hamlin on the mound—the Cubs' fastest-working pitcher—the game was speeding along. It entered the sixth inning, still 2–0.

Kevin and I needed to take a bathroom break, which at Wrigley Field is never a pleasant experience. Instead of urinals, the men's rooms have long, metal troughs that you pee into. I peed into one side of a trough, Kevin peed into the other side, and a guy wedged in between us.

Now, normally when you go pee in a men's room, you keep your head down. You focus on the task at hand and avoid making eye contact with strangers. But Kevin and I were in a different mindset that day. I peeked up at the guy between us. Kevin did the same.
Oh my gosh
, I thought. I leaned forward and looked at Kevin, who was equally shocked. Peeing between us was—without a doubt—Blake Utley!

Kevin was too panicked to talk. But somehow, I was able to utter the words.

“Are you . . . ,” I said to Utley, “the guy who knocked the pop out of Omar's hand?”

Utley's eyes grew big and his jaw dropped. He was shocked that some kid would know his secret. Yet for a strong moment, I could read the look of guilt on his face.

Utley didn't answer me. He zipped up his zipper, buttoned the top of his jeans, and headed toward the exit.

I can't speak for Kevin, but I had never used a men's room without washing my hands. On this day, I made an exception. When Utley saw that we were following him, he sprinted out the door. We ran after him. My dad, who was waiting outside the men's room for us, caught my eye.

“That's him!” I shouted to Dad. “Blake Utley!”

My dad morphed into linebacker mode, pursuing the POI. Utley was fast, but he struggled to slither through the crowded concourse. Dad, Kevin, and I remained hot on his tail. All the while, Dad was calling security on his walkie-talkie.

“We're after him!” Dad blared. “Section 115!”

Utley busted through the Connie's Pizza line, causing yet another kid to spill his pop. We kept after him. Then, out of the blue, three security guards—including Bob Murphy—jumped in front of his path.

Utley slammed on the brakes and ran back our way. He thought he could plow through us two kids and my old man, but boy was he wrong!

My dad charged into him like an All-Pro defender greeting a ballcarrier, and Kevin and I piled on. Together, we brought him to the ground. My dad held him down until the security guards took over.

“Are you Blake Utley?” Bob asked.

“Yes,” Utley said as the guards pulled him to his feet.

“You're coming with us,” Bob said. “And you have a whole lot of explaining to do.”

As Bob and his men took Utley away, the three of us followed.

“Are you kids okay?” Dad asked us.

We were fine, but Dad looked a bit shaken up.

“That was my first tackle in twenty-five years!” he said proudly.

Utley had gone down in the top of the seventh inning. By the eighth, “breaking news” spread like wildfire. Dad, Kevin, and I huddled in front of a TV near the Connie's Pizza booth. The Cubs game was on ESPN, and these words scrolled below:

The Cubs have announced that eleven-year-old Omar Ovozi was NOT responsible for spilling Pepsi on Andres Cabrera during the September 22 Cubs–Reds game.

“Oh, my gosh!” I cried, excitedly.

“Yes!” Kevin shouted, pumping his fist.

We read on:

Reds fan Blake Utley, age twenty, has admitted to knocking the cup out of the boy's hand. Utley said he intentionally tried to spill soda on Cabrera's face so that he would not catch the ball.

“Yeahhhhh!” Kev and I blared, jumping up and down and smacking each other with double high-fives.

“I hope Omar is watching this,” Dad said.

“If he is,” Kevin said, “he's probably like this.”

Imitating Omar, Kevin stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers, and busted out a couple karate moves.

“That's so Omar!” I said, cracking up.

Meanwhile, more good news was brewing. With two men on in the eighth, Cubs' slugger Manny Costada rocketed a shot into left field. We ran toward the seats to witness the historic blast. Amid a deafening roar, the ball sailed out of Wrigley and onto Waveland Avenue.

The Cubs were up 3–2! Fans from two to ninety-two jumped up and down, pumping their fists in the air. Kevin gave me a big “guy” hug, and Dad emitted a loud “woooo-hoooo!”

Should the Cubs win, anything associated with the “Curse of Omar” would be completely forgotten. Happy days would return to Wrigleyville.

And the Cubs
did
win. Chicago closer Bobby “Lights Out” Lackey struck out the side in the ninth. And what a scene! Cubs players mobbed their pitcher. Delirious fans—believing that this could be the year—sang the Wrigley victory song “Go, Cubs, Go!”

Outside the park, thousands of fans from nearby neighborhoods poured into the streets.

“We'll never be able to get out of Chicago!” my dad shouted amid the noise.

As it turned out, we didn't need to. The National League Division Series would start on Wednesday, and the Cubs invited us to attend Game 1. In fact, they treated us like heroes. They paid for Dad, Kevin, and me to stay in the world-famous Drake Hotel. They got ahold of the Ovozis and flew them in for the game.

We were in the Drake's lobby when Omar and his parents arrived. Omar walked through the front door wearing a Cubs cap. When he saw us, he threw his arms up in the air and broke into a huge smile.

“Dudes!” he shouted

We ran up to him, slapping high-fives.

“Man, I don't know how to thank you guys,” Omar said.

“Eh, it was nothin',” I said, as my dad rolled his eyes.

“So what happened to you?” Kevin asked. “Did they throw you in the nut house?”

They didn't throw him in the nut house, Omar explained. But he did have to undergo psychological counseling. The “cure” was Blake Utley's admission of guilt—coupled with the Cubs' victory.

Omar was sky-high prior to Game 1. The Cubs let him throw out the ceremonial first pitch. Amid chants of “O-Mar! O-Mar! O-Mar,” our fellow Baseball Geek fired a perfect strike to the catcher. Omar threw his hands in the air as if he had just won the World Series. Fans waved signs, including “Chicago Loves the Cleveland Kids!”

Afterward, we took our seats behind the left-field fence. And in the seventh inning, guess who got to sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game?” Bob Murphy led us to the WGN broadcast booth to lead the crowd in that familiar song. I was scared and just kind of mumbled the lyrics in the background. But Kevin and Omar are a couple of hams. Like Harry Caray of old, they leaned out of the booth, swayed back and forth, and boomed the words into their microphones.

It's root, root, root for the

Cub-bies, (we didn't dare say Indians!)

If they don't win it's a shame,

For it's one! Two! Three strikes you're out

At the ollllld balllll gaaaame!

And then Omar added the tack-on line that Harry used to say: “Let's get some runs!”

The fans went crazy, and many of them stared up at us and beamed big smiles. The three of us were elated.

“You deserve this,” Kev said to Omar, “after all you've been through.”

To top it off, the Cubs were routing the Phillies 6–2 thanks to four RBI from Andres Cabrera. We returned to our left-field seats, where we planned to enjoy the rest of the game.