Fish out of Water
by Andy Behrens

CHICAGO, Sept. 13 — Billy the Marlin is quickly approaching my 3-year-old daughter. He's trotting around the perimeter of US Cellular Field giving high-fives to fans seated in the front row. Today, nearly everyone is seated in the front row. There are only 4,003 of us at the ballpark and seating is general admission.

Hurricane Ivan forced the relocation of Monday and Tuesday's Florida-Montreal games to the south side of Chicago. It isn't the first time this season that the Marlins have been displaced by a hellish storm, and it's certainly not the first time the Expos have traveled somewhere preposterous to play a game. Both teams are accustomed to small crowds and bland stadiums, too. In an effort to preserve some slight home field advantage, the Marlins have imported their stadium music, their scoreboard gimmicks and, naturally, their mascot, Billy.

He's getting closer to my daughter.

An actual Marlin, if it were 20 feet away and charging, might seem threatening. They're large, sleek, predatory fish with blade-like snouts and pronounced dorsal fins, and they're at the top of the pelagic food chain.

Not so, Billy. He does appear to eat well, though. He's plump, affable, bipedal and googly-eyed. My daughter is tickled when he arrives at our seats. Billy stops. He spreads his fins to invite a hug. The girl giggles, then launches herself toward Billy's jersey. Billy performs the standard act of mascot-on-child domination, engulfing her tiny head in his wide mouth. She's initially stunned, then pleased. Billy delivers a high-five. Then he lowers his elongated snout toward her.

Confronted with this situation later in life, she might say, "Hey, is that a three-foot polyethylene fish nose or are you just happy to see me?"

Today, she simply kisses the nose. The mascot swoons, clutching his heart. He staggers, waves a flipper at her, then trundles into foul territory in rightfield. A few moments later, a member of the US Cellular grounds crew hands my daughter a batting practice baseball. Then Montreal relief pitcher Claudio Vargas signs the ball. My daughter immediately begins referring to Vargas as her best friend.

This is easily the greatest baseball game of her life. It isn't her first game, however. Actually, it isn't even her first Expos game, which says something pathetic about her father. But it's a lovely Monday afternoon, and a few thousand seemingly jobless baseball fans have come to an American League park for a National League game involving two teams that have, ostensibly, no connection to Chicago.

No connection, that is, except for the searing hatred many local fans have for the Marlins. We hate them for being the incidental beneficiaries of our lousy civic baseball karma. We hate them for believing that they won a postseason series that, in fact, the Cubs simply lost. We hate them for clinging to life in the tight National League wild card race. And some of us still hate them for botching the plural of "Marlin."

Thus, most fans attending this Florida game at the White Sox stadium are wearing Cubs jerseys and cheering against the home team. "Welcome to US Cellular Field, the temporary home of your world champion Florida Marlins!" says the stadium announcer.

Prerecorded versions of "O Canada" and "The Star Spangled Banner" play over the public address system.

Billy the Marlin is booed vociferously when he throws out the first pitch.

The game neatly summarizes the seasons that the Marlins and Expos have experienced. Florida is opportunistic, steady and efficient. They don't give away outs. Juan Pierre is blisteringly fast, Miguel Cabrera hits missiles and their pitching is nearly unhittable. The Expos are sloppy, uncertain and ultimately doomed. Their pitchers allow too many balls in play and their fielders can't catch them. They commit four errors, leading to five unearned runs. They lose, 6-3.

The game is played in near silence. Everyone in the stands eventually appears on the Jumbotron. Some of us appear twice. Coughs echo across the vast bowl of empty plastic seats. Smartass fans take advantage of the quiet. In the first inning, someone seated near first base yells to Florida's first baseman, "Hey Conine! Who are you voting for?"

For a moment, this seems like a totally acceptable question. There are so few people here that it feels as if all of us — including the players, umpires and mascots — should engage in polite chatter. Like coworkers in an elevator. Yet Conine doesn't flinch. Is he a Nader man? He won't say. Eventually the fans go home disappointed, as they have after so many Chicago baseball games.

But thanks to a struggling relief pitcher (formerly a struggling starting pitcher) and a man in a fish suit, my daughter learns that you can't beat fun at the old ballpark. Even when it's not really an old ballpark. Even when you hate the home team. Even when they're only pretending to be the home team.

E-mail Andy Behrens at abehrens53 at hotmail dot com.

— graphic by Harsho Mohan Chattoraj (harshomohan at yahoo dot com)