The Cubs Convention, as seen through the eyes of an outsider

Imagine that you, an out-of-towner and the farthest thing from a baseball fan there is, find yourself staying this weekend at the Sheraton Grand Chicago, which has been booked solid for the annual Cubs Convention for eons.

You take Uber from O’Hare, and after small talk with your driver about tourist destinations, he asks if you had kept up with Kris Bryant’s engagement and The Big Day itself, in which Bryant and his betrothed vowed before God, the assembled and 500,000 Twitter followers that they would have and hold each other until death do them part, not that it ever would, the driver says, at least not on Kris’ part, because his sweet swing speaks of immortality.

You ask the driver, “Who is Kris Bryant?’’ which gets you dropped off, with a screech, a block from the hotel. But that’s OK because the hotel entrance is experiencing some kind of massive blockage. All you can see is a clot of blue. You wonder if this has something to do with the artist Christo, who is famous for massive projects. A work called “The Blue Curtain,’’ perhaps?

As you walk a little farther, you begin to notice that the blue is actually people wearing blue clothing, which gives you a slight throb of excitement because few things thrill you more than participatory art. You ask a burly guy wearing what looks like a professional wrestler’s mask, blue with a bear on each side, if the artist is actually here.

“Kristo?’’ he says. “I’ve never heard of Bryant being called that. Some people call him Sparkles, but for reasons I haven’t worked out yet, that makes me feel uncomfortable.’’

You decide against asking him who Kris Bryant is.

It’s beginning to occur to you that this isn’t art, or if it is, it’s the strangest collection of art you’ve ever seen. All you want to do is check in to the hotel, get to your room and decompress before the National Scrapbooking Convention starts. But the blue clot is growing. A woman is wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase, “Try Not To Suck,’’ as is her baby. A breastfeeding reference? There’s a man wearing a white outfit with blue vertical pinstripes who is chanting, “Cubs, woo!’’ in a high-pitched voice.

A loud argument breaks out between two men, one wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt with the word “Cubs’’ written all over it and another man with a “World Series Champions’’ tattoo on his arm. You only know this because he isn’t wearing a shirt, even though the temperature is 30.

“No way Maddon should have pitched Aroldis Chapman that much!’’ one says. “He almost blew the World Series for us!’’

“But we won, didn’t we?’’ says the other. “We won!’’

They glare at each other, then break down in tears and embrace, like a newly married couple who realize they’ve been silly. Sort of like the Bryants, not that they’d ever fight.

Suddenly, the hotel doors open and you are carried along by the crowd and through the lobby. Never have you experienced such group exuberance! This is an uplifting of man and spirit and quite possibly hip flasks! The mob takes you into a massive ballroom in preparation for what appears to be a religious ceremony.

The high priest, identified as “Pat Hughes,’’ welcomes the faithful to the Cubs Convention.

You blurt it out without thinking.

“What’s the Cubs Convention?”

From the looks on nearby faces, you might as well have asked “What is Christmas?’’ or “What is love?’’

“It’s an annual event celebrating all things Cubs,’’ says a woman, her face painted blue and red.

She must have read your blank look.

“The Chicago Cubs,’’ she says. “The baseball team.’’

“Oh, of course!’’ you say, wondering if anyone else can see the last shred of your dignity on the floor.

“The World Champion Chicago Cubs,’’ she says.

Now that she mentions it, you do recall something about an historic event involving a baseball team. National Public Radio had a report about a championship after a long, long dry spell. That was followed by a story about the shrinking American prairie, which included audio of the reporter’s feet walking through the brush.

“So that’s why everyone is so excited,’’ you say. “The World Series.”

“No, it was like this when we finished in last place too,’’ her friend says.

Someone shrieks, “There’s Kris Bryant!’’ as a tall, young man walks up to the “altar.’’ People immediately begin making out. You can’t help but think of the famous photo of the sailor kissing the nurse on the day Japan surrendered in World War II.

More people walk on to the stage. Hughes identifies them as Anthony Rizzo, Kyle Schwarber, Addison Russell and Javy Baez.

“That’s ‘The Plan’ in the flesh right there,’’ a voice says reverently behind you.

“What’s ‘The Plan?’ ’’ you say.

Four Millennials wearing matching “Theo For God’’ T-shirts wheel and press in on you, their faces suggesting unspeakable acts.

You turn and run.