Foul Ball Frame-up at Wrigley Field Read Online Free PDF Page A

games, the Cubs wouldn’t make the playoffs. The “Curse of Omar” would be cemented into baseball lore.
    Kevin and I watched the Friday night game at my house. As I mentioned, when Kevin gets nervous, he rubs his big tooth with his finger, creating a squeaky noise. There was a whole lot of squeaking going on in the bottom of the ninth inning.
    The Cubs trailed 2–1, but they loaded the bases with one out. A single could knock in two runs and win the game—and the division.
    â€œOh, no!” Kevin cried.
    The Reds’ manager was bringing in their ace reliever: Aroldis Chapman. Known as the “Cuban Missile,” Chapman was perhaps the hardest thrower in human history. In 2012, he fired the fastest fastball ever recorded in a major-league game: 105.1 miles per hour! In 71 ⅔ innings that year, he gave up just 35 hits and struck out 122 batters.
    â€œThis is the last guy we want to face,” I said. “Just a fly ball or grounder would tie the game, but this guy strikes everybody out.”
    Kevin and I fell to our knees, praying. You could see the worried expressions on the faces in the Wrigley Field crowd. They knew their team was doomed. I was glad, however, to see that at least one person cared for my friend. A middle-aged woman held up a sign that said “Do it for Omar!”
    The Cubs batter didn’t do it. He didn’t crack a game-winning hit. He didn’t tie the game with a sacrifice fly or run-scoring grounder. Instead, he struck out on four pitches. The next hitter followed suit. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Game over.
    â€œDarn it!” Kevin yelled, pounding the floor.
    The Cubs now led the Reds by just one game with two games to go.
    â€œYou know,” Kevin said, “these Cubs are going to go up in flames, and I’m not gonna let Omar take the fall!”
    â€œI like your spirit,” said a man’s voice.
    I turned around, and there was my dad. He had just walked in the front door. I stood up, and he gave me a long hug.
    â€œDo you think you two can identify that Reds fan if you see him?” Dad asked.
    â€œI’m pretty sure,” Kevin said.
    â€œAll right, then let’s give it a try,” Dad said. “You and Omar are like nephews to me, and I’m tired of him taking the blame for this.”
    We were all pumped to get to Cincinnati and Daniels Hall.
    â€œCan we leave right now?” I asked.
    â€œWe’ll leave at six in the morning,” Dad said. “Be ready.”
    And we were. At the crack of dawn, Kevin was standing in our driveway in his Indians jacket. He was admiring my dad’s car, which wasn’t really my dad’s.
    â€œCool ride!” Kevin said of the deep-red Dodge Challenger. A Challenger is a sporty “muscle” car, like a Ford Mustang or Chevrolet Camaro.
    â€œThanks,” Dad said as we climbed in. “It belongs to my boss. I told him we were on a mission to save Omar, and he handed me his keys. He said, ‘This will get you there a little bit faster.’”
    The Challenger’s engine growled as Dad merged onto the highway. Kevin’s face was beaming.
    â€œHow fast does this go?” I asked, proudly.
    â€œI won’t be speeding, Joe,” Dad said.
    â€œI know, but how fast?” I asked
    â€œA hundred and seventy,” he replied.
    â€œSweet!” Kevin exclaimed.
    Four hours later, we roared into Cincinnati. Spotting Daniels Hall on the U of C campus was easy. It was a towering presence—a red-brick building twelve stories high.
    Our task was daunting: find at least one of the two Reds fans amid the (gulp) seven hundred students who lived in the building.
    The big problem was that Kevin and I didn’t exactly remember what the two guys looked like. We knew they were white and athletic and had short hair, and we vaguely recalled their faces.
    As we roamed the lobby, cafeteria, and dorm-room hallways, we saw about