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

Field for Sunday’s game—and find Blake Utley.”

Chapter 5
Saving Omar
    A chill was in the air. When we arrived at Wrigley Field at noon on Sunday—after spending the night at a Motel 6—it felt much different than our previous visit. The last time, it was a sunny, summery day. Fans had a skip in their step and wore happy-day expressions.
    Now, cool October winds blew through the Windy City. The sky was overcast, and so were the faces. Fans, many dressed in their Cubs jackets and wool hats, looked serious, worried. They understood the magnitude of the game.
    Two middle-aged men discussed the matter while buying peanuts outside the ballpark.
    â€œIf I were a normal fan,” the one guy said, “I’d be like, ‘Hey, we got a chance to make the playoffs!’ But all I can think about is that we’re about to witness another Cubs collapse.”
    As fans descended on the ballpark, we could read their minds. Omar, they were undoubtedly thinking.
That darn kid Omar. We wish he never existed.
    My dad led Kevin and me to Wrigley Field’s main gate. We did not have tickets, but my dad had scored an appointment with the head of Wrigley security.
    Soon, we were sitting in an old, cramped office deep inside the ballpark. Bob Murphy, a round-shouldered man with a bushy mustache, introduced himself. As Kev would say later, “He looked like one of those ‘Da Bears’ guys.” To my surprise, he tried to help us.
    First of all, Bob actually confirmed that Blake Utley had attended the Friday night “Omar game.”
    â€œYep, there’s his name,” Bob said, showing us his computer screen. “We mailed tickets to the residence of Blake Utley on September 5 for the September 22 game.”
    â€œIt says Section 102, Row 21, Seats 1 and 2,” Dad said, looking at the screen. “Where is that?”
    Bob handed us a color-coded seating chart and pointed to the seats. It was right where Kevin and I had sat.
    â€œBut what about this game?” I asked. “Where is he sitting?”
    Bob looked up Utley on the computer but came up empty. This time, Utley hadn’t bought tickets from the Cubs online.
    â€œEither a friend ordered the tickets or they got them from someone else,” Bob said. “Or he’s simply not here.”
    â€œNo,” my dad said, “he’s gotta be here.”
    â€œLook,” Bob said to my dad. “We’d love to help. Nobody in the Cubs organization—from the owner to the manager to the players—wants Omar to take the heat. But that cell phone photo only shows Utley’s backside. We don’t know what the guy looks like.”
    â€œBut
we
do,” I said, pointing to Kevin.
    â€œThen it’s time to play detective,” Bob said, addressing Kevin and me.
    He handed all three of us ballpark ID cards to wear around our necks—as well as walkie-talkies.
    â€œYou’re on a mission,” Bob said. “March around the ballpark, from the home plate seats to the center-field bleachers. If you find Blake Utley, hit that red button. We’ll send a security team ASAP.”
    â€œWe can do that,” I said.
    â€œGood!” Bob said. “I want to find this guy—and get him to confess—before this game ends. And if we do, I’ll let the media know immediately.”
    â€œYes, sir!” Kevin said.
    And with that, we began our mission. Kev and I zipped up our Indians jackets and pulled on our wool hats. Together with my dad, we dashed out to the concourse area.
    â€œWhen I last saw Omar,” I told my dad, “the Cubs were four games up and he was devastated. If the Cubs lose this game and the curse becomes real . . . I mean . . . he’s gonna be. . .”
    â€œI know, Joe,” Dad said. “We got to find this guy.”
    It was 1:20, a few minutes before game time. Many in the sold-out crowd had settled into their seats, but thousands more were