Can’t wait for road trip as a fan, not a writer

By Ron Kantowski

Wednesday, May 20, 2009 | 2 a.m.

A lot of people think I have a pretty neat job, and most of the time I agree there are worse occupations than writing about sports.

In fact, other than the time I saw Bob Horner naked in the Atlanta Braves’ locker room, I really can’t think of a day where I regretted becoming a scribe, which is what baseball managers called sports writers when they wore fedoras and smoked cigars and typed their stories on thin sheets of paper.

But there are times when the home team has ducks on the pond when I look down through the window of the air-conditioned press box where a couple of guys wearing plastic batting helmets have removed their shirts and are drinking a beer with one hand while slapping high-fives with the other that I wish I were down there with them.

Sports writers do not get to be sports fans because first, there’s no cheering in the press box, and second, because to be a sports fan, you must first buy a ticket. Sports writers do not buy tickets or lunch or shirts and ties that match.

But tomorrow morning when I pack my suitcase, the plaid shirts and striped ties will remain on the pile where I left them. I am dropping off my wife at her sister’s place near Kansas City, after which her sister’s husband and I will drive to St. Louis to watch the Royals play the Cardinals. In the morning, it’s back on I-70 for the four-hour drive to Indianapolis, where we will watch the gentlemen and Danica Patrick (and a couple of other female drivers) start their engines in the big 500-mile race. Then, provided it doesn’t rain in Indy on race day, we’ll shoot up I-65 to watch the Cubs play the Pirates at Wrigley on Monday night.

It might not be the ultimate sports fan’s getaway, but that’s only because my wife’s brother-in-law has to go back to work Tuesday, which means we won’t be able to catch the first six innings of the Royals and Tigers at Kauffman Stadium before he drops me back at KCI.

This is the weekend I hope to rediscover the joy of being a sports fan.

I am going to roll down the window in the rental car and smell the soybeans along I-70. I am going to marvel at Zack Greinke’s earned-run average, as well as how green everything is.

When we get to St. Louis, I am going to have a pregame beer (or two) on the back deck at Sundecker’s and watch the barges float down the Mississippi River, like Mark Twain did 100 years ago.

I am going to sit in the bleachers at Busch Stadium, because it’s as far from the press box as you can get.

If he’s off the disabled list by then, I may yell something like “Durango High School” at Ryan Ludwick, the Cardinals’ left fielder from Las Vegas.

If he’s not, I may yell something to his replacement about where’s the best place to stay in Memphis, because that’s where he’s going just as soon as Ludwick’s hamstring heals.

I will go to White Castle after the game.

In the morning, I will smell more soybeans along I-70 or sleep until we get to Terre Haute.

When we get to Terre Haute, I want to stop and see if Larry Bird’s restaurant in the Best Western is still there. If it isn’t, I will probably look for a giant can of beer with the Indy 500 logo on it, to go with the one I got the last time through. They make excellent souvenirs.

When we stop for gas at the Texaco station in Brazil, I will try very hard to resist the temptation to ask how the soccer team is going to do against Argentina. But after I return the key to the restroom that is attached to the wooden block, I will probably yield to the temptation.

On the night before the 500, I will go downtown for the street party where somebody like .38 Special will be playing a free concert — just like the band did in 1995.

I will think about the people near and dear to me with whom I have watched past Indy 500s, and wonder how they are doing.

I also will wonder what ever happened to Howdy Holmes and Tom Bigelow. And Josele Garza, who was a talented young driver from Mexico before Bobby Unser got hold of him.

If Jim Nabors makes it back, I will get a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye when he sings “Back Home Again in Indiana.”

When the cars roll past my seat in the Southwest Vista on the pace lap, I will say a little prayer that none hits the wall with a sickening thud the next time by.

I haven’t decided whether I am going to cheer for Danica, or a driver who doesn’t take showers with women for cheesy TV ads.

By the second yellow flag, I will reach into a cheap Styrofoam cooler for a sandwich, only to find the ice from the beer has leaked all over it. But I will still eat the sandwich, because when there are 300,000 fans in the stands, the lines for a hot dog can get pretty long.

But I won’t drink a lot of beer, because if you think the lines for a hot dog are long, you should see the ones to use the restroom.

I will go to White Castle after the race.

The next day, as we’re driving through Lafayette, I will probably recall when my driver’s ed teacher, who also was our football coach, had us drive there so we could watch Purdue practice football.

I might stop in my old hometown on the way to Wrigley and drive by the house I grew up in. Then again, I might not, just in case it doesn’t look the same.

I will take my wife’s brother-in-law for a real pizza at Uno’s or Geno’s downtown, then insist we ride the “L” Red Line to Wrigley, because if you are going to Wrigley for the first time, those are the rules.

Once inside I will tell my wife’s brother-in-law that talking is permitted in the cathedral, and that if he tips the Old Style vendor, he’ll be back every other inning with another one.

I’m not sure if they still sell Smokie Links at Wrigley Field. But if they do, we’re having a couple.

I will go to White Castle after the game. But after Uno’s and Smokie Links, it might not be pretty.

By the time we drive through Springfield the next day, I hope I will have rediscovered the joy of wearing plastic batting helmets and drinking beer and high-fiving when the home team has ducks on the pond.

But under no circumstance will I remove my shirt. The other sports fans sitting in my section can thank Bob Horner for that.