Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I am a die-hard Cubs fan. If I slit my wrist (which this peculiar fan relationship renders almost reasonable), I would probably bleed Cubbie Blue. But Friday night, something stronger than fan loyalty came over me. I realized summer’s almost over.

This past weekend I wanted to load up on all things SUMMER. I had a heartfelt longing to go to a ballgame, to watch grown men run around the infield grass, buy a scorecard which I would not make a mark in, and test my judgment on close calls against the umpire’s, courtesy of the Jumbotron. Enjoying baseball this fine Friday night meant a trip to the Cell, a.k.a. US Cellular Field, home of the White Sox. Foreign territory for me

Cliché though it may be, some of my best friends are Sox fans. If not big backers of the Men in Black, many other friends have touted the virtues of the Cell for a long time. Almost everyone agrees, the food is better than at Wrigley. But, while only 10 miles away from Cub’s Park by the Red Line, getting off at the 35th Street stop, I felt like I was stepping off into a brave new world.

Fortunately, I coaxed a girlfriend into making the trip with me. Her post-game advice turned out to be practically life-saving. Herded like pigs at one of those slaughterhouses whistleblower documentaries on big bad agri-biz like to show, everyone from the north side, whose only reasonable means of transport was the el, shuffled along to the edge of the platform, with no air space in between. There, they waited to shove their way into a train car. The trains seemed to be running on a reduced frequency schedule. Not over-served like 90% of the other baseball revelers returning cross town, she directed me to board a practically empty train going further south so we could jump off at 47th, walk to the other side of the platform and get a seat on a northbound train before it reached 35th. While this maneuver was a little bit of a trick, I can’t complain that there was any lack of hospitality at the city’s other park.

As soon as we got close to the Cell, there were promos galore. Street vendors handed out sweepstakes forms for exotic trips. McDonald’s gave away sippie-cup sized raspberry slushies. The first 10,000 through the turnstiles received replica Stanley Cups, as Friday night’s game was dedicated to the Sox honoring the Blackhawks as recently crowned hockey champions.

The view of the Chicago skyline, from the bus parking lot and from a 500 level rooftop lounge, was breathtaking, an angle of the city I could never see from the loop or from Belmont Harbor. The brats (locally manufactured Bobak brand), as reported, were definitely above the fare served at The Friendly Confines. The site lines, although we were sitting in the nosebleed section, were quite adequate….Oh yes, and the game was great! We clobbered the Yankees (always good sport) 9 to 3. Going to a baseball game where your team wins is a great way to observe the end of summer.

After the game, the firework display was incredible. Amped up with a little extra fire power, courtesy of the Chicago Blackhawks, the post-game pyrotechnics probably went on for twenty minutes. And we had a perfect view, sitting on the right field side, about twenty rows down from the roof. Dizzying sprays of lights, along side of a nearly full moon, against a backdrop of velvet, navy blue sky.

All in all, it was a great evening. My favorite recollection was when the margarita man visited our seats, something I have never seen at another stadium. Vendors, suited up with rounded tanks of freshly blended margaritas, like men from NASA suited up with jet packs, roamed the Cell, dispensing their delectable, cold, frothy and highly Sauza-ed libations. Is this not the best?! Eat your heart out, Jimmy Buffet. Margarita-ville came to me.

Having the margarita man come to Section 516, Row 9, and serve me a freshly made, frozen strawberry cocktail from a space age chiller tank is no small thing.