By Chuck Kramer
Heading east on Addison,
I drive through Wrigleyville
And the early afternoon,
Hours-before-the-game
Gathering of Cubs fans
Who swarm the ballpark
Like pilgrims descending on an
Ancient shrine.
I don't have a Cubs cap or
Shirt, and I'm not infected with
'Cubs Fever.' I'm just an old man
With a white beard in a rusted Toyota
Driving through a face-painted
Horde of young zealots but I'm not
Put off by their devotion to the
American religion of sport. Just
Amused as they scream,
'Go Cubbies,' and shake their fists
In the air, tremulous at what
Strikes them as an historical
Moment, which I don't
See--but I'm OK with
That because it works for them.
What works for me is
The transgendered world of queens
And clubs and cross-dressing switch
Hitters two blocks from the ballpark
Where the Boystown's swish is the
Transfigured midnight twin of
Wrigleyville's All-American
Macho swagger. The traffic moves
Slowly forward as we near Clark
Street and I honk in
Neighborly support of our
Local jocks and their fans' passionate
Commitment, hoping I get to
Rachelle who's really Ralph
Before the cops block the street and
Make everything difficult.
Chuck Kramer is a Chicago writer currently living in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. His work has previously appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times and the Chicago Reader, and his poetry has been published in magazines and anthologized. His short fiction is posted at www.flash-fiction.com .