Mike Royko

I grew up reading Mike Royko. Back when people actually read newspapers (and I was and still am a avid reader of the daily paper.) I have seen a lot of columnists come and go but no one was anywhere near as good as Royko was in his prime. Sure, at the end he became kind of bitter and in some ways I don’t think he ever fully recovered after the death of his first wife in 1979. But, if you go back and read some of what he wrote in the 60’s and 70’s if you enjoy newspaper journalism there is no one better. I stumbled across this piece he wrote on the day Jackie Robinson died. I have nothing to add to the greatness of this.

Jackie's Debut a Unique Day

All that Saturday, the wise men of the neighborhood, who sat in chairs on the sidewalk outside the tavern, had talked about what it would do to baseball.
I hung around and listened because baseball was about the most important thing in the world, and if anything was going to ruin it, I was worried.
Most of the things they said, I didn't understand, although it all sounded terrible. But could one man bring such ruin?
They said he could and would. And the next day he was going to be in Wrigley Field for the first time, on the same diamond as Hack, Nicholson, Cavarretta, Schmitz, Pafko, and all my other idols.
I had to see Jackie Robinson, the man who was going to somehow wreck everything. So the next day, another kid and I started walking to the ballpark early.
We always walked to save the streetcar fare. It was five or six miles, but I felt about baseball the way Abe Lincoln felt about education.
Usually, we could get there just at noon, find a seat in the grandstand, and watch some batting practice. But not that Sunday, May 18, 1947.
By noon, Wrigley Field was almost filled. The crowd outside spilled off the sidewalk and into the streets. Scalpers were asking top dollar for box seats and getting it.
I had never seen anything like it. Not just the size, although it was a new record, more than 47,000. But this was twenty-five years ago, and in 1947 few blacks were seen in the Loop, much less up on the white North Side at a Cub game.
That day, they came by the thousands, pouring off the northbound Ls and out of their cars.
They didn't wear baseball-game clothes. They had on church clothes and funeral clothes·suits, white shirts, ties, gleaming shoes, and straw hats. I've never seen so many straw hats.
As big as it was, the crowd was orderly. Almost unnaturally so. People didn't jostle each other.
The whites tried to look as if nothing unusual was happening, while the blacks tried to look casual and dignified. So everybody looked slightly ill at ease.
For most, it was probably the first time they had been that close to each other in such great numbers.
We managed to get in, scramble up a ramp, and find a place to stand behind the last row of grandstand seats. Then they shut the gates. No place remained to stand.
Robinson came up in the first inning. I remember the sound. It wasn't the shrill, teenage cry you now hear, or an excited gut roar. They applauded, long, rolling applause. A tall, middle-aged black man stood next to me, a smile of almost painful joy on his face, beating his palms together so hard they must have hurt.
When Robinson stepped into the batter's box, it was as if someone had flicked a switch. The place went silent.
He swung at the first pitch and they erupted as if he had knocked it over the wall. But it was only a high foul that dropped into the box seats. I remember thinking it was strange that a foul could make that many people happy. When he struck out, the low moan was genuine.
I've forgotten most of the details of the game, other than that the Dodgers won and Robinson didn't get a hit or do anything special, although he was cheered on every swing and every routine play.
But two things happened I'll never forget. Robinson played first, and early in the game a Cub star hit a grounder and it was a close play.
Just before the Cub reached first, he swerved to his left. And as he got to the bag, he seemed to slam his foot down hard at Robinson's foot.
It was obvious to everyone that he was trying to run into him or spike him. Robinson took the throw and got clear at the last instant.
I was shocked. That Cub, a hometown boy, was my biggest hero. It was not only an unheroic stunt, but it seemed a rude thing to do in front of people who would cheer for a foul ball. I didn't understand why he had done it. It wasn't at all big league.
I didn't know that while the white fans were relatively polite, the Cubs and most other teams kept up a steady stream of racial abuse from the dugout. I thought that all they did down there was talk about how good Wheaties are.
Late in the game, Robinson was up again, and he hit another foul ball. This time it came into the stands low and fast, in our direction. Somebody in the seats grabbed for it, but it caromed off his hand and kept coming. There was a flurry of arms as the ball kept bouncing, and suddenly it was between me and my pal. We both grabbed. I had a baseball.
The two of us stood there examining it and chortling. A genuine major-league baseball that had actually been gripped and thrown by a Cub pitcher, hit by a Dodger batter. What a possession.
Then I heard the voice say: "Would you consider selling that?"
It was the black man who had applauded so fiercely.
I mumbled something. I didn't want to sell it.
"I'll give you ten dollars for it," he said.
Ten dollars. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what ten dollars could buy because I'd never had that much money. But I knew that a lot of men in the neighborhood considered sixty dollars a week to be good pay.
I handed it to him, and he paid me with ten $1 bills.
When I left the ball park, with that much money in my pocket, I was sure that Jackie Robinson wasn't bad for the game.
Since then, I've regretted a few times that I didn't keep the ball. Or that I hadn't given it to him free. I didn't know, then, how hard he probably had to work for that ten dollars.
But Tuesday I was glad I had sold it to him. And if that man is still around, and has that baseball, I'm sure he thinks it was worth every cent.

Three Random Gross Stories.

I.P. Freely

The closest I ever came to wetting myself definitely was after a Cub game years ago. I know my Uncle Dan was with me as I remember him sympathizing with my plight. I had had a couple of “soda pops” at the game and then we all hit a bar afterwards. I never drive to Wrigley and on this occasion we parked at Midway and took the CTA down to the game. Well after the game and the side trip to the bar, we board the red line at Addison and I am fine. By the time we transfer to the orange I have to take a leak. The ride lasts about a half hour from the Roosevelt stop to Midway. That half hour was the longest half hour of my life. Time felt like it had literally stopped.

I am standing on the train feeling every twist and turn the conductor was making. Everyone was laughing at me and my plight. I was in dire pain and not doing a very good job of hiding it. I had just one goal to get off that train and relieve the situation. I thought only dry thoughts when finally at long last we arrive at Midway. Anyone that has ever taken the orange line knows that when you get off the train there is not a bathroom to be found anywhere.

At this point my options were to hoof it back into the airport or run to the parking lot and “check the air in the tires” as my Uncle put it. I decided on option B as this was emergency time. As I ran ahead of the rest of the group, I saw in the horizon in the parking lot where our car was parked, a port a john. I was never happier in my life to see one of those disgusting stink houses. I ran faster than Carl Lewis to the outhouse and at long last took the longest, most satisfying leak of my entire life, all with the sounds of hoots and laughter coming from my loving family.

Oh Crap

Continuing on the bodily functions theme, the closest I came to crapping myself was years ago when I was on the Y2K team at Harris Bank. At some point we had to go to each branch of the bank and update all the sets at each location. I was given every bank south of Madison in Chicago. This took over a month as we had quite a few locations to hit.

We had a branch that was in Lilly Lake. Now, I must mention that the night before I was going to make this journey I went out with some friends to BJ McMahons where they had fifty cent drafts. I have no idea how many drafts I had that night, but as usual they went down pretty good. I was still in my twenties and could still get away drinking on work nights.

I got up and knew this was going to be a long drive. So, before I made my journey I stopped in at the Mickey D’s near my house and loaded up on an Egg McMuffin, hash brown and some OJ. To add that to the damage I had done the night before would be a huge mistake.

For those who don’t know Lilly Lake is, it’s literally in the middle of nowhere. Don’t believe me put that town in Google Maps and take a look at what it is around. It is barren, but for some reason Harris Bank had a branch there. I was driving along happy as a clam when at a certain point I felt a familiar rumbling in my stomach. I tried to ignore it, but the beer and grease had finally met and decided it was time to evacuate.

The more I drove the more the pain I was in. I looked around as this was becoming serious and there was farmland on my left and farmland on my right. I stepped on the gas as I was sure I would see civilization at some point. Sadly, it would be miles before I saw anything other than more rows of corn.

As many know there comes a point where your body just revolts and says, “Listen, I am voiding my bowels right now. You may not be sitting on a toilet but this is happening.” I was about 30 seconds from that moment when all of the sudden up ahead I saw a four way stop. At the right of this stop like an arc angel sitting there was a Clark gas station. Beggars can’t be choosers. This was going to have to do.

This was your typical gas station bathroom of yesteryear. You had to get the key from the attendant and then head back outside to enter the commode. As I walked in it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Eisenhower administration. The floor had that wet urine soaked glow to it. The sinks were rusted out. To say it smelled in there would be being kind. I’ve enjoyed better fragrances at the petting zoo. But, again it was go time. I kicked open the stall door to see a sight as much as I try I just can’t get out of my head. I won’t describe it because I don’t think I could do it justice. The seat was in no shape to be sat on, so I basically took the stance my dog takes when she has to go and “hovered” over the bowl and let out the most ungodly funk one can imagine. I made it, with literally seconds to spare.

As I was done, I finished up and gave the key back to the attendant. I then asked if he knew where the Harris Bank branch was. It was literally attached at the other end of the gas station. And of course they had a nice, clean employee bathroom in there.

Blackout

I am sure I am not alone in this phenomenon, but I have drunk enough booze to the point of blacking out a couple of times in my life. It has been a very long time since this has happened. My 21^st birthday, I blacked out. The night of my Mom and Lou’s wedding, I blacked out. As drunk as I was on those occasions, the closest I ever came to an alcohol poisoning death came on the night of the IRI bowl-a-thon.

Wally and I were both at IRI at the time. This had to be like 1994ish. For some reason we got volunteered to be put on the “party planning committee.” (Not sure what the actual name of the committee was but, for fans of The Office, you know what I mean.) So, we would go to these meetings every month with the idea of fostering teamwork by planning events that would take place outside of the office. I don’t remember who suggested it but a bowling event was mentioned as a possible idea for the IT department, which put Wally and I in charge of organizing the event.

We worked with Brenda, who was in charge of organizing all of IRI’s parties. Again, not sure who came up with the idea but we came up with a 70’s theme for the thing. So, we called it “The let’s get it on bowl-A-thon.” Little did we know we would have to do a lot of work on this gala.

Brenda knew the people at the bowling alley in Marina Towers so, securing that was pretty easy. She also tied us in with Junior Achievements which turned the whole thing into a charity event which worked out nicely. We catered in some food and we went about forming teams of four. Somehow, I remember Wally being on Ned’s team. Ned was the Director of Information Technology for the entire company. (I can still see Wally high fiving Ned after rolling a strike.)

Like I said it was a lot of work. So, when the night came Wally and I were going to enjoy every minute of it. As it turned out the same evening of the bowl-a-thon our favorite local band Howard and the White Boys were playing at the Sluggers in Lakeview. So, we hatched a plan to hit the bowling alley and after it was all done to take the CTA to Sluggers and catch Howard’s set. Our friends Rob and Tony planned on meeting us there and could give us a ride back home.

I remember the bowl-a-thon. We got there early and started drinking at like two in the afternoon. We did a couple of celebratory shots with Brenda and were having a good old time decorating the bowling alley and enjoying the fact that we were able to pull it off and got most of the people in IT to come to the thing. As we bowled we enjoyed more and more beverages. Everyone was having a good old time and wanted to do a shot with Wally and I, and who were we to say no.

Eventually, the bowl-a-thon wrapped up. So, Wally, myself, Dell (who was working at IRI at the time as well) and Pat (another tech on our team who was from Ireland and who liked to enjoy a beverage or two) all hoped on the red line and headed towards Sluggers. I was at this point half in the bag, but I still remember the train ride.

We got to Sluggers and this is where the night starts to get hazy. I do remember Rob and Tony meeting us there. At some point I also remember doing shots of Goldschlager. I am not sure what it is about Goldschlager but whenever I drink it, I blackout. I have not had even one sip of it in well over ten years for that simple reason. It is my kryptonite.

After the shots of evil, I was pretty well oiled. The rest of this story I have to piece together from others accounts of what happened. I was having a good time listening to Howard. I guess in between sets I went to take a leak and Howard was using the urinal right next to me. I guess at that time, I choose to say, “Hey Howard, I’m in a phone booth, baby.” Which is one of the lyrics to one of my favorite songs that they cover. I am pretty sure I gave him a big case of the creeps, but I was way too out of it to notice.

I never stopped ingesting fluids and was making many rookie mistakes, like mixing alcohol and what not. We stayed for all three sets and closed the bar at 2 AM. So, this meant that other then the brief respite of the train ride I had been drinking for twelve solid hours. I stumbled out of Sluggers and into the backseat of Tony’s 1980’s Buick Skylark. From what I am told I promptly passed out.

I was blissfully in a state of comatose and Tony was driving on I-55 when Rob awoke me with “Hey Nick, do you want to get a burrito.” I am not sure if it was the thought of one of Summit’s finest or if the booze finally started doing it’s magic but, as soon as I was awoken I knew I had to vomit. Tony was in the far left lane and pulled a Starsky and Hutch move to maneuver to the far right shoulder. Dell basically picked me up and threw my head out the door as I emptied most of the contents of my stomach near the Pulaski exit on the Stevenson. Every time I pass by that exit I still get a slight crooked knowing smile on my face. Tony dropped me off at my house and I passed out on the front lawn for a bit before I made into the house, making the night complete.