As she sat in the upper deck Tuesday night,
Sue Schwerin kept her most prized possession protected in a plastic
sheet dangling from a string around her neck--one thin ticket stub, or
as she liked to view it, proof.
"Everybody always claims, `I was there, I was there,'" Schwerin, 46, of
Naperville said. "Anybody can buy a T-shirt, but you can only have a
ticket if you were here."
In a world
of $150 replica jerseys, $10 programs and overpriced sodas in novelty
cups, for many fans the only memento that really matters is the humble
ticket stub.
And for many at Wrigley Field Tuesday night, none was bigger than the
stub returned at the turnstile as they entered for Game 1 of the
National League Championship Series.
"This is just super, super special," said Kevin Mimms, 46, of Chicago,
as he clutched his tickets outside the stadium. "We're going to seal
them and keep them in plastic for a long time."
Some will keep them in their wallets, folded in half and stowed away,
just in case someone challenges them when they say they were at the
game. Others will stash them in a box or their dresser drawer, bringing
them out only on occasion, to help them remember.
Barbara Demma, 59, of Orland Park will put hers on her coffee table for
all to see.
Lisle resident Kurt Harz, 50, will place his in a box with hundreds of
others he has saved as a season-ticket holder since 1984.
And Tony Militello, 20, will put his on the bedroom door of his
Nashville apartment.
Everyone, it seems, has a special place carved out for the red, white
and blue ticket bearing a Cubs symbol on the left, the drawing of a
pitcher rearing back to throw in the middle and the words "National
League Championship Series" across the top.
Julie Lyons, 33, went to the game with friends--leaving her Cubs-fan
husband at home in Downers Grove. Her stub would become a present, she
said.
"My husband told me to get a program and save the ticket and he'll put
them in a frame," Lyons said. "I got him a T-shirt, too, because I'm a
good wife."
Some fans have been in this position before and have the stubs to prove
it.
John Stachnik, 53, of Palos Hills still has his tickets from Cubs trips
to the playoffs in 1984 and 1989. But those, he said, were losing
series.
His wife, Mary, has higher hopes for this year's stubs.
"If they get to the [World] Series, they'll be scanned and blown up,
poster-size," she said. "It'll be wallpaper in my kitchen."
There were other ways to commemorate the game. Outside the ballpark,
hawkers sold blue-and-red baseball-bead necklaces, bumper stickers,
pennants, mini-bats and DVDs of Sunday's Division Series win.
One man sold T-shirts depicting a bear cub with a bat in one hand and a
bloody marlin in the other and the words "Fillet the Fish!"
Ben Kirshenbaum, 58, of St. Joseph, Mich., bought $125 worth of
memorabilia at a souvenir stand near Addison Street and Sheffield
Avenue.
He purchased a $5 pennant for himself and $120 worth of hats and shirts
for employees at his box company.
But by far the most cherished keepsake was perhaps the simplest. For
those lucky enough to pay face value for their tickets, the stub came
free with their $35 to $80 cost of admission.
Others paid up to $1,000 through ticket brokers.
Lynn Morgan got her ticket online when they went on sale and was trying
to keep the cost of her playoff experience down. Morgan, 52, of Des
Plaines, was collecting free National League Central Division Champion
placards that she planned to frame with her ticket.
"These will go in my bedroom," she said.
Others will display them more prominently.
"There's going to be 40,000 people in here tonight, and tomorrow there
will be 150,000 who'll say they were there," said Randy Granath, 56, of
Prospect Heights. "I'll save my stub and challenge anybody."
Some are holding out for even bigger ticket stubs. As he waited outside
the ballpark, Mark Sonka, 33, of Lexington, Ky., said he planned to
laminate his ticket as soon as he got home.
"It's the most important ticket I've ever bought in my life," he said.
"But it's not as important as a World Series ticket."
Copyright ©
2003,
Chicago Tribune