Part II, April 17-April 22

When you’re a fan of a historic team like the Chicago Bears, you tend to learn more about sports history than if you are a fan of, say, the Carolina Panthers. When you hear about Walter Payton, you hear about him in the context of Gale Sayers and Red Grange. When you hear about Brian Urlacher, you hear about him in the context of Mike Singletary, Dick Butkus, and Bill George. When you are a fan of the Chicago Bears, you learn that your team had a hand in the creations of the modern offense, the middle linebacker, and the tight end. And of course, along with the history of your own team, you begin to piece together the histories of other historic teams, such as the Packers, Giants, Redskins, Spartans/Lions, Cardinals, and Eagles. You grow older, follow your team more closely, and while you are moving through season upon season, you are also trekking backwards through past seasons, slowly piecing together a history of the NFL.

Of course, there are many fans who do not take an active interest in history, fans who simply enjoy sport in the present. And that’s fine. But for those of us who have come to cherish the past, both the teams and the athletes, there are certain historical landmarks that are must-sees. For years, I’ve looked forward to one day setting foot in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. Today, I did just that.

For any football fan who has never been to the Hall, I say this with total conviction: make it a priority, as it is well worth the trip. I’ve heard wonderful things about both Baseball’s Hall in Cooperstown, NY and Basketball’s Hall in Springfield, MA, and I plan on visiting both at some time. But for me, Canton is king. It was such a thrill to be surrounded by so much history, to see pictures of old players and displays of all the great teams. There is a whole glass case that commemorates nearly every NFL record ever set, with little pieces of memorabilia from each, and even though quite a few records were set against the Bears,[1] it was still very cool to see. I particularly enjoyed all of the Super Bowl displays; finally my memorization of every SB winner, loser, and MVP seemed validated, as I forced Meghan to quiz me on Super Bowl trivia, of which the museum was filled. All the great photos, classic images forever in my mind: Y.A. Tittle on his knees, bloody and beaten…Dwight Clark leaping over Everson Walls, who can only watch…the Fun Bunch in full fun high-five form…Chuck Bednarik looming over the unconscious Frank Gifford…Leon Lett’s stretched arms, unaware of Don Beebe a step behind…Jerome Brown, fading into the fog at Soldier Field…

As we walked through the hallways, I caught a glimpse of a room on my left. It was dark, and roomy, and filled with space, a large circular room in which the focus pushed outwards to the walls despite the overwhelming area in the middle. The hallways and other displays are bright and filled with color, large glossy photos and hanging jerseys and team logos, but this room was dark, noticeably dark, almost subdued. The room is built to convey a feeling of greatness. These are the great of the great. I had been excited beforehand to see the room—it is, after all, the heart of the Hall of Fame museum—and yet it snuck up on me. I lost my breath as we walked in, as I looked at the sculpted faces on the wall. This was it. The Hall of Fame.

Of the thousands upon thousands of men who have suited up for NFL teams during the past 85 years, as well as the countless number of men surrounding the game—coaches, owners, general managers, commissioners, and other admistrative types—only 235 are in the Hall of Fame. 235 busts have been molded, 235 busts sitting on top of 235 small, wooden planks, all of which are individually lit by 235 different bulbs. No matter the career span or success, a person who has played a game in the NFL has accomplished quite a bit in his field. This is no knock on them, but to see the best of the best, to see a small percentage of people who have worked hard and honed their craft and distinguished themselves from the masses…it was truly remarkable.

One night in Denver, two nights in Lawrence, two nights in Bloomington, and after that Meg and I split further east into Ohio, before moving north to the neighboring towns of Dover—hometown of my good camp friend Adam Stroup, a guy who was a counselor last summer—and the aforementioned Canton. Stroup and I had not hung out since the final day of camp in August of 2004, and I was pumped when I realized that our trip was going to take us over to his place. And that’s we are now, the three of us hanging out on Stroup’s backyard wooden patio, listening to Kind of Blue and reminiscing about camp, while also engulfing Meghan in our camp stories. Meghan’s a camp person herself—she was a camper and a counselor at Michigan’s Camp Echo—so she has a good feel for this sort of thing, but even with her lengthy background in the area, there is no way to fully know North Star simply through story, in the same way that I’m sure there’s no way to know Echo in that fashion.

“You’re not kidding. But we’ll be heading back west to cut down through the Dakotas and then into Nebraska.”

“Nebraska? There’s nothing to see in Nebraska. You should come in for Passover.”

“It’d be nice…” He pauses, trying to weaken me, but I’m not biting. “…anyhow, were the Bulls on in North Dakota tonight?”

“Oh hell yeah! Meg,” I motion to Stroup to stay quiet, “Bulls won 92-91 tonight. Against New York, right?”

“Yeah. It was quite a game. Back and forth throughout the fourth, and then with the Knicks up two, our old friend Jamal Crawford missed a pair from the line.”

“Well, I’m going to get off the phone. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow, and Mom and I are going to watch some of The Great McGinty on AMC.”

“We’re surprising my parents for Passover on Saturday, so right now we’re telling them that we’re farther away than we actually are so that they will be surprised.”

“Cubs play on Sunday. I’m going with Rutkoff and a few other people. I’ve got an extra ticket. You interested?”

“OH man. I’d love to. But the Bulls play Sunday. Game 1. I’ve been waiting seven years for this game. It’s a must. Sorry man. Thanks, though.”

“Perfectly understandable. In that case, I’ve got two tickets to the Bulls game. You want them?”

I’m shocked. Only Dan Lichtenstein could come through with multiple tickets to multiple games on the same day. “Are you serious?”

“Well, I’m still going to that game. You could just take these two Bulls tickets and go check that out.”

“Yeah. Check out the Bulls for Game 1. Yeah.” Sure, we’ll stay and hang around with y’us. With Alice Cooper…

“Glad you can use them. Give me a call when you get into town. You can get them and we can get some lunch or something.”

“Don’t mention it. Enjoy your time with Stroup, and have a safe rest of the trip.”

Would you rather play with one team for your entire career and never win a championship, or bounce around and win one or two without any real team-identity? Meg and I are in Ann Arbor right now, watching Reggie Miller’s final regular season game in Indiana, and it’s proof positive that the first option is a damn good way to go. The Bulls are losing to the Pacers right now, but with both teams having already clinched playoff births, the real focus of this game is solely on Reggie, who has announced his retirement effective at the end of this season. It’s been a zoo at Canseco, where the pre-game featured a plethora[2] of goodbyes and tributes, including a taped message from President Clinton of all people, and every time Reggie shoots the Pacers crowd goes loco, hoping to catch one final Reggie Moment. Unfortunately for them, Miller is off tonight, and though the Pacers are moving towards a late-game victory to secure the East’s sixth seed (the Bulls are guaranteed the fourth, and home-court advantage—HOLY CRAP!), the win will not be due to Reggie’s typical clutch shooting. Still, everyone in attendance has gotten their money’s worth. For Pacers fans everywhere, this is certainly a night to remember.

It’s an incredible thing, to have a guy to yourself for his entire career. There are guys who are remembered with one team, even though they ended their careers elsewhere in lackluster fashion—Olajuwon with the Raptors and Emmitt with the Cardinals come to mind—as well as some who did the opposite—Favre starting with the Falcons, Ryno starting with the Phillies—but to be a guy like Reggie Miller, Tony Gwynn, Cal Ripken…

There’s nothing that can replace the special bond that connects a loyal player with a loyal organization and loyal fans. All three have to be present. We give players a lot of flack for bouncing out of a city at the first sign of trouble, money, or both, but they’re only a third of the equation. There are plenty of cases of an organization cutting ties with a legend in an effort to Move On. It happened to both Joe Montana and Jerry Rice, and they both went on to play significant seasons in Kansas City and Oakland, respectively. There are also plenty of cases of fans turning on a player, and making him feel unwelcome. I remember calling family friends in Indianapolis when Jim Harbaugh went over there so that I could “warn” and pity them. Know I look at Harbaugh and wonder, “Why?” He always played hard for us, and seems like a really good guy. We want undying loyalty, but only when it suits us. I understand why players do what they do. Sometimes they go overboard on the money end, but for the most part, I get it. After all, how loyal would you be to a bunch of people you don’t know who are bound to boo you every time you make a mistake?

Yes, it’s a tricky balance…so when all three groups are able to find a common ground and maintain a relationship over the course of fifteen, sixteen, or in this case, eighteen years, it is truly special. Would the Pacers trade their eighteen titeless years with Reggie for Michael and Scottie and six rings? Of course not. And we wouldn’t trade nineteen titleless seasons with Ernie Banks for eighteen years and seven World Series wins with Mickey Mantle. It just wouldn’t be right. Would it?

Meg and I left Dover yesterday and cruised over to Ann Arbor where a large contingent of North Star guys currently reside. My oldest camp friend, Mike Swiryn (we’ve known each other since we were six[3]), turned 23 today, and it was great being able to spend his birthday with him. Twas also great to see Heldman, Rutkoff, and Jon Weiss, all three of whom—along with Swiryn—will be up in the North Woods in less than two months. As I always say round this time, we’re a camping season away from camp.

Meanwhile, in sports, the Cubs lost 4-nil to St. Louis today to drop to 8-8. On top of that, we found out today that Nomar will be out about three months after tearing his groin yesterday while running out of the box on his way to first. Doofer. The Cubs seem stagnant; the only upside is Derrek Lee, who has been on fire in April. He went 2 for 4 today, raising his average to .417. We’ll see how long he can sustain, and though I don’t expect him to hit .400, it would be nice to have Lee fill the Sosa-void.

But that’s all an aside, right now. Sportswise, the Bulls are my focus, entirely, solely, as is to be expected with them preparing for their opening round series against the Wizards. But even the Bulls aren’t my main, main focus right now, as Meghan and I prepare to head back to Chicago for the first time in two and a half months. We’ve decided to make the final leg of the trip a night ride, as I realized that one of the few things we’ve yet to do on this trip is watch the sunrise while driving. So we’ll be leaving Ann Arbor in a few hours—probably around two or so—and heading back into Illinois as the sun comes up.

The roads are nearly empty, though even at this early hour there are still a fair stream of cars. The night riders. It’s 4:36, eastern time, about to switch over.

I smile. Passover. “It’s great. The whole night is centered around the reading of this service book called a Hagaddah.”

“Ha-gad-dah,” I say slowly, so she can hear it. “Everybody reads one, but ours is particularly fun. Some of them are really long and serious, and that’s fine, but I really like ours. We’ve read it in my family since my mom was a kid. It’s meaningful and traditional, yet it is easy to follow if you’re a kid or a newcomer. Papa used to lead the service, and now my dad does.” I smile again, thinking. “‘Candles shine before us, stars are in the skies, wine in the glasses, light in the eyes.’”

“It’s nice.” She turns over, opening her eyes. “So I’m not going to feel out of place? Or confused?”

“No, you’ll be fine. It’s about family, really, more than about Judaism. I mean, it’s about Judaism, certainly, but it’s more about family. You’ll see. We won’t be pummeling you with our Jewishness, or anything.”

We’re coming up on one of my favorite stretches of drive in America. A shade under three months around the country…cacti, mountains, pines trees, palm trees, Ft. Hancock, rocky drives, ocean drives, sand dunes, white churches, black churches, big Texas billboards, snowy turns …and I’m probably more excited right now than I was for any of those new scenes. That’s how it goes, right? There’s no way around the excitement that fills me up and bubbles me over when I come up on the city, heading north on I-90, just shy of the border. You approach the bridge, still in Indiana, and all around are the smoky landmarks of Gary. Then over the bridge, curving around, and when you come out on the other end you’re at a new angle, and there it is, sparkling, sprawling…

Fast approaching now, and now we’re in, cruising underneath that Chicago welcome mat—“WELCOME TO CHICAGO…MAYOR RICHARD M. DALEY”—and honking twice as I do, and then up to the Skyway toll with its bright, shining letters CHICAGO SKYWAY up above. And now cutting down, and we’re back, Comiskey coming up large on the left, merging over to get into the express lanes, flying past a pair of trucks, and then following the signs for 94 to Milwaukee, past the Addison/Wrigley Field exit, into Skokie and then South Evanston, Dempster, Church…

And she’s right. We are going to her house. I get off the highway at Old Orchard Road and head towards the lake, taking Central Street, unnecessarily, driving past a darkened Mustards before cutting back on Sheridan and heading into Rogers Park. We park behind Meg’s garage, bring in some pillows and blankets, and cuddle up in Meghan’s room, on Meghan’s bed. Time for sleep. The road trip is over.

I drove from Rogers Park all the way to Lake Forest to surprise Ben, but it was well worth it.

“Hey buddy!” We do our guy-hug—handshake/right, wrap around fist-to-back tap/left—and then jump in the car.

“He’s going to the Cubs game with some friends. He invited me there first, and I turned him down because I wanted to watch Game 1, so then he offered me a pair for that game. You in?”

We hop back on the highway and head south, getting off at Lake and weaving through Wilmette and then Evanston on our way to Mustards. It is raining slightly yet steadily, and word is that the Cubs game might be rained out. We get to Mustards, angling my car into the left as is the custom.The Friday afternoon crowd is sparse; an old man in a black suit is leaving as we pull up, and when we get inside, a pair of plumbers presumably on their lunch break are sitting at the counter. I check out the walls; Scottie driving past Craig Ehlo, Darnell Autry on the cover of S.I., MJ dogging the Knicks, Steve Cauthen weighing in, Mike Adamle celebrating as a Wildcat, Frank Thomas and Ron Santo and Ryne Sandberg and Minnie Minoso and Bobby Hull and Jeremy Roenick.

There is also a newly added item: a wooden frame holding three photos, all of which show a newly-wed couple decked out in suit and gown enjoying a pair of dogs with everything. The caption: “The first meal of the rest of our lives. Where else but Mustards?”

Keith and Steve are behind the counter as we enter, with Steve giving the shorter plumber a refill on his Coke. Keith smiles as we come in.

“They’re playing good. Real good. That Scott Skiles is whooping them into shape. He’s even got Curry jumping.”

I laugh, and then I do the I’m-embarrassed-to-laugh-at-that shirt collar tug. Keith points to us.

“So,” Keith asks, slapping my patties and Ben’s chicken down on the grill and then squaring up to the counter to address us, “you think the Bulls can win this thing?”

“We’re going to charge through them,” Keith says confidentally. “Those guys are clowns. They’re good, but they don’t seem serious. It’ll be tough, but we’ll do it.”

“Bulls in six…” Steve says, nodding, as if just to test out the sound of it.

“I don’t know, man. The Wizards are real good. That Gilbert Arenas is a player. They got, basically, three All-Stars, and Arenas is the real deal. He’ll take it to you.”

Ben and I get our food and sit at the counter. The plumbers have left. The Sun-Times is sitting to my left, folded up and stained from some mustard, but still good. Ben and I eat quietly…it’s funny how good food can focus you. A father and two young sons come in, all three wearing Cubs hats. Keith greets them; the Cubs game has indeed been rained out, and the family was on the El on their way to Wrigley when they found out that the game was postponed. I guess Mustards for dinner was a makeup treat. The older son looks like he is around eight years old; he is disappointed. His younger brother, around six, is just excited to be getting a hot dog and fries. Ben and I talk Bulls as we finish up, and when the dad and his sons are sitting down, we are getting up and heading out.

Ben and I drive around for a bit, listening to music and shifting our talk from Bulls to Cubs.

“Quite so. I’m getting sick of Prior and Wood, though. Wood particularly.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty much resigned to the fact that this is The Real Kerry Wood. Occasionally brilliant, often wild and erratic, often injured…”

“Oh definitely. Real good. Prior, Zambrano, Maddux, maybe Wood settling into that closer spot…”

“Derrek Lee killing the ball, Aramis and Barrett, maybe Corey’ll turn it around.”

“Lots.” He laughs. “But forget about the Cubs. We’re going to the playoffs, man. Two days. Can you believe it?”

We pull up to Ben’s house in Evanston. He’s going to do some work there and then get a ride from a friend back to Lake Forest. We high five as he leaves.

[1] Priest Holmes, most TD’s in a season, broken against the Bears in the final game of 2003; Terrell Owens, most receptions in a single game, set against the Bears in 2000; Brett Favre and Robert Brooks, longest pass in NFL history, 99 yards against the Bears in 1995.

[2] “Jefe, would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?”

[3] Mike Swiryn holds an interesting place in my life. His father Steve’s parents started Tamarak Day Camp, and his mom Linda’s parents started North Star Camp For Boys. Nana and Papa sent my mom and Aunt Karen to Tamarak as kids. In turn, Mike, our cousin Liz, and myself all went to Tamarak. I met Mike on my first day of camp, on the bus, when we were six years old, and we became great friends pretty much immediately. (When I got home that day, I told my mom that I’d met a really cool kid on the bus named Mike “Swear-in.” “You sure it’s not Mike Swiryn?” Mom asked, as she knew that Maury and Rya Swiryn had started Tamarak, and since she’s tapped into the creepy, all-powerful Network of Moms, she probably knew that Maury and Rya’s family lived in Wilmette and that they had a grandson named Mike. “No,” I answered defiantly. “It’s Mike Swear-in’. Ya know, like swear words.” Of course I asked him the next day, and he told me it was “Swiryn,” thus, as always, proving my parents right.) We spent five years at Tamarak together, and when we grew too old for day camp, Mike naturally headed to North Star for overnight camp…so I followed him. And my experience at North Star both as a camper and now as a counselor has probably shaped me almost as much as have my parents, family, and other friends. It’s funny to think about the way that one small thing can have so much effect on another.