1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Behind construction fencing and tarps printed with fake ivy leaves, the electric bulbs beneath the red Wrigley Field sign spelled out four words and two numbers:

ERNIE BANKS
“MR. CUB”
1931-2015 » Read the rest of this entry «

A friend of mine wrote a book. » Read the rest of this entry «

1. Wrigleyville

Just down the street from a storefront just marked “BEER,” no one was interested in the best margaritas in Wrigleyville.

The windows and doors had been thrown open to let the spring warm patrons who would hopefully come in to watch the Cubs lose badly on the many, many TVs stationed around the bar.

It wasn’t working. I was alone with my Victoria. » Read the rest of this entry «

The man in the pink polo and Cubs fisherman’s hat doesn’t use his credit card all summer, he said. The Cubs take care of that.

“All my groceries, every errand — cash,” the man said, trying to flag down a slowly cruising smoker in a black SUV. “It’s a benefit of living here.”

» Read the rest of this entry «

He had played a wedding that day — not a usual occurrence — so he was pumped, energetic. He danced a bit as he moved.

“Hey, guys,” he said when he caught up with the rest of the gang, our assembled crowd of journos and finance people. “The guy at the door said there are lingerie football players in here.” » Read the rest of this entry «