When I was a kid growing up in the Chicago suburbs there were two ways that your school would give you free baseball tickets, three ways to get them in all.  You could make the honor roll, you could have perfect attendance, or – my preferred method – you could have smart punctual brothers who didn't like sports and let you have theirs. 

And that is precisely how my dad and I went to over 20 free baseball games at the old Comiskey Park.  Built on the south side of the city in 1910, the much maligned stadium's only real crime was being old and retro in the era before it was considered a positive thing for your team to have an old and retro stadium. 

I can distinctly remember that there was not a good seat in the house.  Chances were you would find yourself behind either a beam, or an enormous neighborhood guy named Frank Sikorski.  Either way, your view was obstructed by a large pole.

But even the smallest glimpse of a big league ball game is enough to capture a child's imagination, and many of my best baseball memories come from this time and place.  Homeruns triggered fireworks.  The PA system sputtered funny sounding names like Lemon, Trout, Fisk, and Kittle. 

I modeled my own little league style after Ozzie Guillen, a young shortstop who scooped up every ball that came his way on the field and swung at every one that came his way at the plate.  And as organ music filled the time between innings, I remember thinking that it must play better than the one at church because the men sang along to this one.   

Eventually White Sox chairman Jerry Reinsdorf started playing a tougher brand of hardball than his players did out on the field.  He squeezed the city for a new stadium, and he played a prominent role in the 1994 strike that cancelled the World Series for the first time in the sport’s storied history.  It was enough to alienate the casual fans such as my dad, and my family stopped going to big league games (though, for some odd reason, my brothers continued to make the honor roll and log perfect attendance).

Meanwhile, moderate success in '84 and '89, as well as its omnipresence on WGN, made the Cubs the trendy team throughout the entire Midwest and a disproportionate amount of the country.  The picturesque backdrop of Wrigley Field was another draw.  And unlike the Sox who seemed a lightning rod for criticism, I can't remember ever reading a critical article in the paper about the Cubs.  At the time I just credited this to how great the team must be, but in retrospect it was most likely because they were owned by the same company (the Tribune) that printed and delivered those stories to our doorstep.

These resources gave the club a tremendous competitive advantage, as well as a large showcase for players like Andre Dawson, Mark Grace, and a young Greg Maddox.  Harry Carry and Steve Stone's broadcast work was legendary, as were the year-to-year contributions of many of these players.  Carl Sandburg captured the city's essence when he penned the words to ‘Chicago,’ while second baseman Ryne played with a silent power and swiftness that did the same for over a decade.

Over the years, however, some of the more cavalier fans grew tired of the ‘lovable losers’ identity.  The Cubs were still a vibrant symbol of the region, but maybe not the kind we were comfortable with or wanted to support.  It took a high degree of baseball senility to actually think that the Cubs could contend after so many failed seasons.  It was even harder to pretend that a mid-July game (once the club was at least 20 games out of first) had any kind of pennant race implications.  And while August Alzheimer’s was apropos  for Harry, it seemed kind of sad in anyone else. 

Worst of all was the apathy of the ownership.  Though they deny it in 20 point font each morning, the Cubs are losers, no longer even very lovable.  No team in the history of big time sports has ever had deeper pockets, more loyal fans, yet such consistent and predictable futility.  Several years back I decided that they could continue their legacy of ineptitude at the expense of someone else's care and cash.     

This past Sunday I took in a beautiful afternoon from the highest point of elevation in Wisconsin, the upper deck of Miller Park.  I watched a scrappy mid-market club (the Brewers) match a division leader (the Cardinals) for several innings before fading down the stretch.  The tailgating was festive and the crowd was lively.  The Crew has a lineup filled with promising young talent.  And it all adds up to make me feel more appreciated as a fan than I ever did on either sides of town in Chicago.

But last weekend certainly was not my first experience as a Wisconsin baseball fan.  I have watched – and laughed at – Major League countless times, a movie filmed at the old County Stadium.  In what may be the only good thing former owner and current Major League Baseball commissioner Bud Selig ever did, I used to get complementary tickets to take underprivileged kids to games at both venues.  And throughout it all, I continually marveled at the phenomenal percentage of Milwaukee men who really do look exactly like mascot Bernie Brewer.     

There is a great deal of anti-baseball rhetoric being thrown around lately, and rightfully so.  Discerning fans realize that the current economic structure, drug policy, and competitive disadvantage safeguards are terribly ineffective.  Part of me looks back over my migration pattern from the Sox to the Cubs to the Brewers, and figures that if things get as bleak here as they have in previous stops that I continue my northern migration to Minneapolis and, if necessary, Toronto.

But the reality is closer to the old baseball adage three strikes and you're out.  I will stick with the Brewers through thick (Prince Fielder) and thin (Richie Sexson).  And the few times a year the Cubs or Sox come to town and flood Miller Park with their tortured fans, it won't even bother me.  Because I know how much baseball in the Windy City blows.