He is exactly the type of person who deserves seats in the second row just off the left field foul line, and exactly the type of person who rarely gets them anymore. No one knows how he procured the tickets, if he saved up a bunch of cash for the opportunity to watch the Cubs clinch a trip to the World Series. He wouldn't have been able to afford them, not at his salary, not at his job. He must have waited a long time. He must have felt that this was the year, and stowed away a little money this week, a little more that week, hoping this moment would come, preparing. My, how lucky he is! He has front row seats—well, second row—to the most important moment in Cubs baseball in 60 years. He has earned this. He's at the game by himself, for cripe's sake. Only diehards go to baseball games by themselves. Only the ones who truly, deeply care. Only people who think the other 21 hours of the day are just the time in between the first pitch and the last pitch. People like me. People like Bartman.
How excited he must be.
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