Can I get a hallelujah?

For a guy who isn't religious, explaining the unexplainable presents an especially difficult challenge. But I can honestly say that what I felt this weekend was nothing short of a spiritual rebirth.\nAnd as I trek home from the Mecca of the Midwest, all I can think of are balls, strikes, pine tar and some of the finest Cracker Jack's ever made.\nLike any pilgrimage, the road to revival was a long and difficult one. Much like Odysseus' return from the Trojan War, the sense of accomplishment would not have been nearly as great if we hadn't struggled along our journey.\nAs if the mighty Neptune decided to conjure up storms to keep us from the promised land, our tickets got delayed when UPS computers went down in the thunderstorm of the summer.\nKnowing we only had a short time to locate our tickets and beat the plague known as Chicago rush hour traffic, we set out across Bloomington in search of the big brown truck and our UPS man.\nAfter locating the wise man and our package, we began our voyage through the badlands of I-65, determined to let nothing stand in our way.\nSeveral hours later, after fighting off the Cyclops near West Lafayette and the Charybdis whirlpool in Gary, we made it across the border to safety. And the grass on the other side couldn't have been greener.\nThe ivy was perfectly groomed and the basepaths perfectly swept. It was clear to me now. Baseball was my religion, and Wrigley Field was my temple.\nBaseballism fanatics from all over converged in a sea of red and blue, each person more excited than the next.\nYou can't help but be sucked in by the tradition, overwhelmed by the nostalgia and all-around psyched about being surrounded in every direction by the friendliest confines imaginable.\nShaking off the sirens wooing us from the porch of the Cubbie Bear, a bar across Sheffield Avenue, we headed for the nearest gate we could find.\nUpon arrival was a feast worth of anyone's last supper. It was an endless platter of uber-plump hot dogs, gooey nachos and the elusive ivy cans of Old Style that are harder to catch outside of Chi-town than a Mark Prior slider.\nAfter refueling from a grueling trip down the dreaded Chicago Skyway, I settled in to terrace box 211, row 109, seat six, for an experience that would change my life.\nWords can't describe the crack of Derek Lee's bat as he homered in the second to put the good guys up early in the game.\nAs I could hear Cubs fans from across the world cheer simultaneously, all I could think was, "Fenway -- what?"\nSeeing big No. 21 sprint out of the dugout to right field after the home-half made even this Braves fan jump to his feet and cheer as the seventh-inning stretch grew closer.\nNow, people often complain about how slow the game of baseball can be. But five beers, three hot dogs and two bags of peanuts later, I found myself singing "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" with Steve Perry from Journey, lovin', touchin' and squeezin' every minute of it.\nAnd unlike Friday night services or Sunday mass, it was over in a flash and I felt truly changed.\nThe memories of seeing the real team in pinstripes fresh off the All-Star break will last forever, longer than my memories of the Knicks at the Garden or the Irish in South Bend.\nJust like in any other religion, there's nothing specific or concrete that makes this awakening so special. But when you step out of that tunnel and get your first look at the diamond, it stops you in your tracks, makes your jaw drop, and like "Charlie" from "Top Gun," it takes your breath away.\nOr it's something they put in the beer.\nEither way, I return to Bloomington ready to preach on the lawn behind Woodburn Hall in hopes of converting all you non-baseball believers out there.\nBecause in my eyes, you can't say you've lived a full life until you've tasted the fruits of the North Side's Eden.\nI, for one, can rest easy, knowing I've scratched one more item off my list of things to do before I die.\nAmen.