I really had no idea, not having the least interest in either the Cubs or the Expos, and having grown completely disenchanted with baseball now that the Yankees were making such fools of themselves. I was just there to see Wrigley, enjoy the sun, and relax. But I humored the old expert and said, "Well, 6-5 Expos."

My questioner just laughed. "You're a genius. That's exactly the odds. Just like I told Las Vegas."

And as he chuckled I was trying to figure out just what 6-5 Expos really meant.

"Let me tell you something, though. Don't ever bet," the chattering patriarch spurted, his countenance growing more serious. "Don't ever bet. I've seen people ruined. It'll get you. You're young and you can do better things with your money. It'll ruin you, though. You're not an expert like me, and I wouldn't even touch the stuff."

By this time, I expected my knowledgeable mentor to ask me for a wager on the game. But the people around me just chuckled, and my new-found friend kept rambling, preaching the ethics of the day, the vices of wagering and the necessity of listening to his counseling.

When someone yelled to him that his odds were crazy because Reuschel and the Cubs would take the game, the wiseman's color deepened, and he was barely able to stutter, "C'mon. Who's Reuschel? If the Cubs win the game, I'll buy you a Cadillac."

Later on, in about the fifth inning, with the Cubs ahead, 3-1, the veteran oddsmaker denied the trend of the game, proudly announcing to all around that if the Cubs won, he would "strip on Michigan Avenue," the main street in downtown Chicago.

A half-dozen beers and a bottle of Coppertone later, super-reliever Bruee Sutter struck out the last Expo batter giving the Cubs a 3-1 win and a 2-2 tie in the series.

Missing his T-shirt and sporting a mean sunburn, the wise old bleacher philosopher ambled from his seat, still talking of his mastery of the sport, his control of the odds and his long history with the game.

The people around me assured me he was a fixture at Wrigley Field, and his free conversation was as much a part of any game as hot dogs and scoreboards.

The next day, I kept a careful eye on Michigan Avenue, wondering if some die-hard Bleacher Bums would make my friend keep his promise. He never showed--not that I really expected him.

They tell me he was back at Wrigley, preaching the gospel about the destiny of the Chicago-Houston series, which started that day.

And I started thinking about what an empty life this man would lead if it weren't for Wrigley Field and the good-natured crowed in the bleachers.

For him, Wrigley was not history, it was an existence.