I met fans from Old Irving Park. Austin. River North. I saw two men in matching steelworkers polos, and a row of women in matching José Abreu jerseys. I saw porkpie hats, neck tattoos, dresses, cargo shorts, overalls. I often saw the day-off recline — arms outstretched, body tilted backward. I saw two people — two! — reading physical newspapers. Whenever a play was close, the section turned in unison, like eager geese, to see a replay on the scoreboard. What I saw was not overly rowdy or ugly but buoyant. At worst, charming pirate behavior. A man complained about his lemonade to a concession worker, and the whole row began taunting: “MY LEMONADE! MY LEMONADE!” Go back to the fancy sections, with its cup holders and bucket seats. Pretensions just will not do back here, in these green metal benches stretching from Section 160 to Section 164, between bronze statues of Carlton Fisk and Paul Konerko, the finest seats in Chicago.
