7th Inning Stretch Competition

Yesterday I competed against 2,000 other Chicago Cub fans for the chance to lead the singing of Take Me Out to the Ball Game during the 7th inning stretch on September 22.

During my 3 hour trek up north, I mulled over strategy. Having interviewed 40 people in the last week alone, I tried to put myself in the judges' shoes. What would they be looking for?

7th inning stretch conductors visit with the Cubs' radio announcers during the top half of the 7th, then with the TV announcers during the bottom half. I figured they'd want someone who was passionate but not hyper, so that the guys could count on fun conversation.

I also needed a "hook" of some kind, so as to stand out; something quick enough to fit inside of a typical 15-second intro to the song. At first I thought about highlighting my sacrificial 250-mile round trip, but it'd be easy for someone else to come from farther away so I ditched that one (a good thing, as I learned that several contestants also come from Bloomington). Eventually I chose something of a surprise tactic, saying a few deadpan words and then launching into a sing-song cry of "I LO-OVE, my CUBS!" I envisioned the fans screaming that phrase along with me from the booth at the game, and who knows, maybe the Cubs marketing gurus would even pick it up as slogan for 2008. I'm not picky. After trying out a few deadpan phrases on Jack, we decided on "Hey Cub fans. I'm an insurance actuary. And..."

When we got there, my excitement swelled with the Cubs' legal affidavit claiming that I was over 8 years old, that I'd reimburse the Cubs for their contest expenses if I lied along the way, submit to a background check if asked, let the Cubs do pretty much whatever they wanted with my audition tapes, and enough other rights-yielding oaths to fill an attorney's playground. With a 5-digit number proudly pinned to my chest, we strolled into the sunlit abundance of Wrigley's seats along the left field foul line and settled in to enjoy the view.

As a heavily-caffeinated, electronically-amplified Cubs staffer tossed trivia questions to the hundreds of us scheduled for the 1:00 time slot (evidently running in 1-hour shifts over two days), Jack and I sized up the competition nearby. Adorable 8-year olds. Shuffling, twinkly-eyed grandparents. Model-perfect young ladies with certain sparsely-clothed features. No props or signs were allowed, but that didn't preclude wearing the Cubs footie pajamas & suspenders, or dressing entirely in Wrigley outfield wall ivy with green face paint. Somewhere, no doubt, someone sported a Cubs tatoo on an unmentionable body part.

When my number came up, we were led past throngs into the bowels of the stadium to our waiting area. We sat on a worn, wooden bench in a long cement hallway. Locked behind a gate we could see spare bases that had seen some game action. Perhaps they'd been trampled by Derrek Lee or Barry Bonds, or even heaved angrily by Cubs skipper Lou Piniella during a tirade. Nearby sat one of the wire grates used to drag the field during the games like a dust-spewing zamboni. Echoing towards us were the muffled, strained, off-key notes of Take Me Out to the Ball Game from a previous contestant. I noticed that there was no musical accompaniment. That ought to be an advantage for me, I concluded, having crooned in the shower on a daily basis and had done some singing in bands and choirs in the past.

At last a short, stocky grinning woman named Mary chatted me up as she led me into the interview room -- one in which Cubs broadcasters, players and managers had actually used for decades. I met the other two judges, one of whom led me to an X on the floor. They merrily asked about the ride from Bloomington as they positioned the mike in front of me.

Then the digital camera started rolling.

They asked me to explain why I thought I was the ultimate Cub fan, and I launched into the content of my essay, explaining the mood in our house as it rose and fell during our youth by the Cubs' winning percentage, reliving the tragic 1984 playoffs in particular. Then I settled into my deadpan face and trademark cry, followed by a decent, enthusiastic and (fortunately) on-key version of the song, gesturing with "1-2-3 strikes you're out" and pumping my fist at the end as I shouted to the "stadium" to bring it home.

The judges' panel burst into applause at the end, and one complimented my voice. What a rush!

Jack and I made our way to the car and homeward. He said that my voice was louder than prior contestants and mentioned that others waiting their turn in the hall grew a little nervous as they listened, stirring my competitive juices gleefully. For a while we let ourselves dream about making the cut to the 50 finalists who would be featured on the internet for fan voting, however remote the chances might be. Then we settled back, just two brothers and baseball junkies, relishing the summer afternoon off work and talking about old times past and good times to come.