Seeing is believing, purportedly, but I’m unconvinced. Sights blur together, interfering with others, until I’m not sure if I’m even seeing things correctly. I peer out the window of the Red Line; is this someone outside? Or the reflection of someone inside?
My field of vision grows ever bluer with people climbing on. When I got on, I could see the stops in the ‘L”s deformed sketch, nervously checking the time while counting which stops were left. By the time I get close, though, the list of stops is invisible, blocked by my fellow riders. So it’s impossible to worry. It turns out there’s still time.
I’ve been to Wrigley Field before, so this time, it feels less eye-popping. I decide to keep score, which is noteworthy–the first time in memory I went here, I chose not to so I wouldn’t focus on it too much. Now it feels like I’m touring in some other city, with surprisingly few people showing up. Lots of people, yes, but there’s lots of room for more too.
But they produce noise, loud sound blurring together. The voice of the guy telling us who’s coming up is tepid, so it’s difficult to write down the flurry of defensive switches in the ninth. The little electronic screen doesn’t help.
When the lights go out, everyone goes off the field. The lights will flicker on one by one, in time, but I’m not sure the Cubs or Dodgers should exit so quickly. Looking from section to section, it seems like every possible photo of the impromptu pre-1988 field is coming into existence. The flickers of light, by themselves, look like enough to see by.