Barbecue, Ball Caps, and the Echoes of Wrigley

I hadn’t set foot in Wrigley Field before that Tuesday in May, but I’d been to Chicago a few times—always loving the mess and rhythm of the city, but never quite catching a Cubs game. So when the idea came around to take my work team to a ball game, I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight out of Kansas City that morning and made a checklist: laptop, Cubs tickets, KC Joe’s BBQ sauce.

We rolled up to Wrigley in the early evening light. Ed, Alvin, and Ana from my team were already swapping stories from the office patio to the sidewalk, and CC and a few of my contacts from Open Text had joined in too. There’s something about seeing coworkers outside the usual polished chaos of work emails and Monday meetings—it all just shifts. Everyone loosened up as the city buzzed around us, thick with Cubs fans in blue, like the sidewalk had been carpeted in team spirit.

A sunny day in front of Wrigley Field, with a crowd of fans gathered, their excitement building for the Cubs game.

Before heading in, we hit one of those little spots across the street from Wrigley—the kind of outdoor setup that feels like a party and a prelude at once. Back in Kansas City, tailgating outside Kauffman is practically a religion, but this was different. Instead of folding chairs and charcoal smoke, it was pizza slices bigger than your head, beers cold enough to fog your glasses, and that electric hum in the air that only game day in a dense city can offer.

And I wasn’t about to show up empty-handed. I’d promised real BBQ, Kansas City-style. So I packed a bottle of that magic from KC Joe’s—it rode in my carry-on tucked between my laptop charger and a pair of socks. I handed it off like it was sacred. One of my coworkers, eyes wide, twisted the cap off and sniffed it like a sommelier.

It looks like someone's bringing a taste of Kansas City along for the ride with that bottle of BBQ sauce, capturing a bit of home spirit amidst the streets of Chicago.

Outside Wrigley, we lined up for that obligatory moment. Tourists or not, work trip or not, there’s something about first times that deserve to be paused and captured. Standing with Wrigley’s famous red marquee behind us, all of us shoulder to shoulder, wearing our mix of Cubs hats and business-casual-casual, we caught a photo that says way more than a Slack thread ever could.

It looks like everyone is all smiles standing outside Wrigley Field, capturing the excitement before the game.

Then suddenly we were inside. And Wrigley Field? She lives up to the legends. You walk into the bowl and there’s that instant, cinematic inhale—you feel the history in the ivy, in the wooden bleachers, in the way everyone somehow already knows the words to “Go Cubs Go.”

We had good seats. Not just decent—we’re talking the kind of good where you feel close enough to heckle the opposing bullpen, but responsible enough not to. Everyone beamed, full stadium glow on our faces like it was July instead of May.

Everyone looks thrilled to be at the game, with big smiles and some Cubs spirit on display. It’s one of those classic group shots where you can just tell everyone’s having a blast together.

As the game got underway, Ana leaned over and said, “Okay, this actually rules.” We kept the beers coming—there’s just something about a cold drink in a plastic cup that tastes 30% better surrounded by cheering people. Someone passed around a tray of Chicago-style dogs and I tried to pretend I missed KC a little less.

Catching a selfie during the excitement of the game, with the vibrant energy of Wrigley Field buzzing in the background.

Ed spotted one of those promo dudes with the “first time” signs and dared me. “You’ve gotta do it. C’mon, or you’re not allowed to go back to Kansas.” I snatched the sign, took a long sip of beer, and held it up like it was a championship trophy. The guy behind me yelled, “Welcome to the real side of the Midwest!” and I toasted him like a fellow traveler.

The excitement at Wrigley Field is real, with someone joyfully sipping a cold drink and proudly holding up a "first-time" sign.

The game was close, and we were loud. Not in a rowdy way—well, maybe a little—but in that tipsy, fully-invested, scream-at-a-fly-ball way. I might still be a Royals fan at heart, but for those few innings, the Cubs had my full allegiance. I don’t recall who won. I don’t think it mattered.

After the game, the streets around Wrigley turned into a people river. It was shoulder to shoulder, elbow to tray-of-nachos, and as the buzz of the stadium began to fade, my phone lit up. Tuesday. Alamo Drafthouse. Cheap movie night. And I thought, yeah, why not? My flight wasn’t until the next day.

I snagged a ticket for something called "Thunderbolts." I’d like to say I remember how it went down, but the truth is, I ordered a chicken sandwich, stretched into the seat, and proceeded to pass out for an hour and a half. The movie played somewhere out in the twilight of my dreams, ambient dialogue and surround sound lulling me into the best kind of city nap. I woke up with bread crumbs on my shirt and no idea what villain got defeated.

If you ask me if I'll ever go back to Wrigley, the answer’s simple. In a heartbeat. But next time, I’m bringing a second bottle of sauce. That stuff disappears fast.