chapter 1
BORN IN CHICAGO
Rick drives through the city at a leisurely pace, praising the sun as it melts the morning clouds away and bakes the sky into his favorite shade of blue, Cubbie blue. It’s going to be a good day—has to be.
Digging his new ride, he sits low behind the wheel and powers down the windows, welcoming a warm summer breeze, then heads north on Halsted, firmly in the belief that he’s on sacred ground. This is his neighborhood. Where he was born, where he’ll die. What else is there? He could never live in New York. Not after ’69, when the Mets ruined an incredible summer. Los Angeles? That’s just for swimming pools and movie stars. As for the South, well, he prefers city life. The bigger, the better. A four-sport town. Shoot, Chicago has two baseball teams if you count the White Sox. So, Rick’s fine right where he is, thank you.
At the moment, however, he feels that Chicago has its guard down, like it’s been sleeping on the job. Just last night, some jackass spraypainted the Dunkin’ Donuts over on Clark and Belmont. Rick hates all the graffiti. Maybe if he could read some of the scribble he’d appreciate it better, but he can’t make heads or tails of it.
He cusses out a pothole he’s watched grow since spring, then drives around another one, deeper and wider. Up ahead, he spots a corner garbage can on its side, as if it took a bullet, trash spilling out into the intersection. These streets are a mess! How about someone getting sanitation down here to clean up once in a while?
Or is he supposed to stop and pick it up? Rick is beginning to take this urban decay personally, like maybe it’s his guard that’s down. Either way, he doesn’t appreciate these thoughts, makes his head hurt.
Trying to shake it off, he reminds himself for the umpteenth time that he didn’t pay a dime for his new car. That’s because a few weeks back Rick got an urgent phone call from his Uncle Frank, who runs security for the Western Open, the big golf tournament that swings through the suburbs every summer.
He quickly explained to Rick that one of the more notable golfers had strayed from the fairways, then popped up at Trader Vic’s, drinking mai tais as custom dictates but losing his famous peach khakis in the process. As his uncle hoped, Rick raced over to the restaurant, which is located in the Palmer House Hotel.
Rick got straight to it, managing to stick the plastered and definitely pantless golfer into a tournament courtesy car before anyone from the papers could snap a photo. Next thing he knew, the head valet was handing him the keys, telling him that if he could get the golfer back to Oak Brook without any more shenanigans, he could keep the car, a limited-edition Chevy Impala built in honor of America’s big birthday in two years, (available to the golfers as part of their sponsorship deal).
Less than an hour later, Rick was tucking the golfer in bed at the player hotel and never looked back. Fresh off the assembly line, this brand new ’74 is officially his: a white 2-door coupe, totally tricked out, sporting red and blue pinstripes, with 15-inch steel wheels and rear fender skirts, not to mention the commemorative badge bearing its name, Spirit of America, which for Rick makes it official—he’s in love. And it’s barely July.
He flips through radio stations until he finds the right song, turning up the volume just as it starts. First comes the guitar riff, a power-chord warning. Then, the drums and bass take over, setting a head-bobbing tempo for singer Barry Hay’s manly growl:
"I’ve been drivin’ all night, my hands wet on the wheel There’s a voice in my head that drives my heel It’s my baby callin’, sayin, “I need you here” And it’s a half past four and I’m shiftin’ gear."
Thumping his fingers on the steering wheel to Golden Earring’s “Radar Love,” Rick turns left at Addison, then slows down under the L tracks and hangs a right, parking on Sheffield. On one side of the block sits a row of three-story apartment buildings, red brick and Chicago greystones bookended by bars; on the other side, his home away from home, the bricks and ivy of Wrigley Field.
He keeps the engine idling, scanning the ballhawks until he finds his friend Buzz, who’s sitting in a lawn chair at the curb, just skin and bones and a huge copper-colored afro. Mitt in one hand, green can of Teem in the other, Buzz is positioned perfectly beyond the right field wall to shag a couple of batting practice homers off the bat of Sweet-Swingin’ Billy Williams.
Rick shuts off the radio. He grew up watching Billy. Rick even tried, unsuccessfully, to bat left-handed like Billy. And by the way, that’s his lawn chair Buzz is sitting in, his usual spot too. So, despite the Cubs fading from the pack before the All-Star break, Rick’s tempted to join Buzz and catch a bit of the game while bleacher tickets are still a dollar.
Hold up, he’s twenty-six. Not a kid anymore, hanging with his buddies. He feels so close to his youth though, like it was just yesterday or at worst last summer. But it’s been much longer than that, especially for him. He’s got shit to do before work. Shit he shouldn’t have put off.
