Major-league baseball players were to go on strike after last night's games, the rest of the 1994 season appears to be in jeopardy, and the folks in Wrigleyville are steeling to take a huge financial hit.
For many of the people who make a buck off baseball, if they don't sell, they don't eat.
Take a stroll on a game day down the four city streets that box in Wrigley - Addison, Sheffield, Waveland and Clark - and you'll find the small businessmen and women who would be the biggest victims of a baseball strike.
Such people as Cliff Mercer, who sells official Cubs souvenirs at a stand near Wrigley Field's main gate, at the corner of Addison and Clark.
"Oh, I've got something lined up: either professional body-building or panning for gold in Alaska," Mercer says with a smirk.
Unionized vendors such as Mercer make between $7.45 and $10.40 an hour. Work is strictly seasonal. If there are no games, there is no work. And life is already tough enough.
"I drive a '66 Dodge Dart," Mercer says. "I live in a men's hotel, with a wire cage for a ceiling. My diet consists of liquor, doughnuts and bad hot dogs. Nobody cares. There's nothing wrong with that. Do I care about the Caterpillar workers who are on strike? Yeah, but what am I going to do?"
The rest of them, the independent vendors and the owners of small businesses, are frustrated, too. They have a stake in the squabbling between owners and players. A ballplayer who makes an average salary of $1.2 million will lose $7,400 for every game on strike.
You get the feeling that the stakes are higher in Wrigleyville.
CORNER OF ADDISON AND CLARK. Two hours before the game, every stool at the
Cubby Bear is occupied. The tavern/nightclub sits diagonally across from the main entrance to Wrigley Field, which makes it a prime location to have a pregame beer.
