Chicago neighbors aren't being neighborly

CHICAGO -- For most of the last century, the people who owned Wrigley Field had to know how to do only three things.

Open the gates.

Count cash.

Get along with the neighbors.

Still no problems with the first two, but lately No. 3 has become a struggle. A recent brouhaha between the Cubs, the city and Wrigley's neighbors became a reminder why the late newspaper columnist Mike Royko once suggested changing Chicago's motto from "City in a Garden" to "Where's Mine?"

The customers who made the turnstiles spin day after day, season after season, rooted for the Cubs but behaved like lambs. They were there for the open-air party. The beauty of the joint is such that on a warm summer afternoon it made cheering for lousy teams feel like a birthright.

Cubs fans didn't demand competitive teams, let alone World Series titles, as long as the sun was shining and a gentle breeze was blowing in off the lake. For some, even a contact high was good enough; they'd drag barbecue grills, coolers and portable TVs up to the roof of the apartment buildings flanking Wrigley Field, never really see a single play and yet feel like they hadn't missed a thing.

Mathematically eliminated by August? Cub fans would swear that simply meant one less thing to keep track of. Too many stairs and not enough bathrooms? All that mattered was that the beer taps were open.

There weren't even lights until the late 1980s, when some numbers-crunchers at the Tribune Co. figured out the extra attendance at night games would more than offset the cost of the bulbs. There were assorted nips and tucks down through the years, some luxury boxes shoehorned in and the players' locker rooms modernized.

But in terms of real changes -- on the field and off -- that was pretty much it.

Then, sometime before the start of last season, another numbers-cruncher began calculating how much more money the ballclub could make with a few more seats, a few more night games and kickbacks from the owners of the rooftop clubs. Wrigley hasn't been the same peaceful place since.

Between then and now, the Cubs put up windscreens blocking the view from some of the rooftops and the neighbors, backed by their alderman and Mayor Richard Daley, have moved to block any expansion plans.

On Monday, the empire struck back. Just days after the city began proceedings to designate Wrigley Field a national landmark -- a move that would limit the Cubs' ability to make changes to the 88-year-old ballpark -- the Cubs turned around and slapped a copyright-infringement lawsuit on the rooftop clubs. The team asked a federal court judge for a permanent injunction, plus compensatory damages and a bite of the clubs' estimated $10 million in annual profits.

That may not seem like a way to make friends, but using threats to influence people is practically a Chicago tradition.

"We're going to deal with the issues separately," Cubs president Andy MacPhail said. "Some get carrots. Some get sticks."

There was a time when the idea of the Cubs' going after the people who owned the rooftops would have pitted a powerful corporation against handful of ragtag fans huddled around a grill. The reality, though, is that the rooftop clubs now seat nearly 1,000 fans and collect $50-to-$200 from each one.

Where MacPhail used to look around and see ambiance, he now sees dollar signs. Rooftop owners, whose patrons spent the 2002 season staring at the green windscreens, now see red.

"They can't attack the community, so they chose us, but they're going to embarrass themselves in the long run," said Jim Murphy, who owns Murphy's Bleachers.

"They don't understand that the neighborhood is what made Wrigley Field what it is. It's not the team's playing ability."

That may be the only uncontested issue in the whole mess.

Jim Litke is a sports columnist for The Associated Press.