Part II, March 6-March 12

We’re heading to Vegas today, and while packing up our stuff in Prescott, Ben calls.

“O’well. I’m sure they’d much rather lose now than in the next few weeks.”

Despite the fact that Illinois has been the unanimous #1 team in the nation since about January and despite the fact that they were undefeated until today, I haven’t really fully embraced these Illini as MY team. Certainly I’ve been following them and rooting for them…but something is missing. I haven’t really caught “Illini Fever” yet, and since the regular season is over, I’d have to guess that I’m not going to catch it.

I’ve been thinking about this for some time now, exploring my feelings so that maybe I can understand why I don’t feel strongly about the team, or anyways, as strongly as everyone else feels about them. It’s not that they’re not Chicago guys. Dee Brown and Luther Head are both homers, and Coach Bruce Weber was at Southern before taking the U of I job. And it’s not that they’re not exciting. They run all game and spread the floor beautifully, and Dee, Luther, and Deron Williams make up the best backcourt in the country, and they play with passion and intensity and fun. And it’s not necessarily that they’ve run the table (almost) against a weak Big Ten, because I don’t think that the Big Ten is all that weak. Illinois is just clearly better than every other team in the conference. But something is still holding me back from falling in love with this team, as evidenced by my use of the “not necessarily.” I can’t prove it, but I feel like a lot of people took to this team because they were undefeated, as opposed to because they loved the team. Actually, that’s wrong. Lots of people do legitimately love this team—I like them, I don’t love them, but lots of people do love them—but I don’t think that people would be talking about them in the way that they are if they hadn’t gone unbeaten for so long. Would this team at 26-4 or 25-5 be getting the kind of pub they’ve been getting at 29-1? Would this team at 26-4 or 25-5 be drawing comparisons to the ’89 Flyin’ Illini, the measuring stick for all Illini basketball teams past and present? Would the city and the local media be so interested in giving this team a nickname if they had lost a few games here or there? Maybe so, but I doubt it. And the nickname that seems to have stuck—the Stylin’ Illini—is an obvious play on the Flyin’ Illini, which seems to say to me that they are reaching to put this team up with the ’89 squad, a team that really had a unique flare and style and a team that has been remembered even though they didn’t go undefeated and lost in the Final Four.

The Illini are an awesome team; I know that for sure. They play great team basketball, they spread the floor, they play tough defense, they have a terrific bench, they’ve got great role players, they’ve got great stars, they hustle and rebound and run and shoot…they are a TEAM. But are they hands down better than the Mateen Cleeves and Mo Pete Michigan State teams that went to three straight Final Fours and won a national title? Are they hands down better than the Bobby Jackson Minnesota Final Four team from 1998? Are they hands down better than the Calbert Cheaney, Damon Bailey, Alan Henderson Indiana teams of the early ’90 s? Everybody’s talking about how this team would matchup with the ’89 club, but what about the squad from 2001? Are Dee, Deron, and Luther hands down better than the Frankie Williams, Brian Cook, Peoria-Manual Illini team from four years ago? And the big one, the biggest marker of all: how do they stack up against Michigan’s Fab Five? I’m not saying that this year’s Illini couldn’t compete with those teams—they absolutely could—but by the talk it’s as if they’re one of the greatest Big Ten teams ever. Say it again: one of the greatest Big Ten teams EVER. Does that sound right?

Coming into the season, everybody knew that Illinois was good; there was no question about that. And then on December 1^st, they ran over top ranked Wake Forest, and as the undefeated team that knocked off the #1, they in turn became the #1. And as they kept on winning, it felt to me like they were ranked #1 more because of their record than because people really thought they were #1. That sounds weird, I know—it brings to mind the great quote from Bill Parcells: “You are what your record says you are.”—but it makes sense to me. When North Carolina lost early in the year, they didn’t fall too far, because people thought, and still think, that they were an amazing team. Kansas has had a bad stretch lately losing three in a row and four of six, but that hasn’t knocked them out of the top ten. Had the Illini lost a couple of close games this season rather than winning them all, I feel like they would have been hard pressed to ever regain the number one ranking. Illinois reminds me a lot of last year’s St. Joe’s team: a very good team with a flawless record.

In that respect, this Illinois squad reminds me of the 2001 Bears. They went 13-3, but to me they were never a “13-3 team.” They were more like a 9-7 or 10-6 team that got all the bounces all year. A real 13-3 Bears team would not have lost twice to Green Bay. Period.

That’s what I think about this Illinois team. I’m not trying to slam them, but there it is. They are not an “undefeated team.” They are a very good team that has found a way to go undefeated. And yes, they are no longer undefeated, but even if they had beaten Ohio State…we’re talking about a one basket difference. We’re talking about Matt Sylvester’s three rimming out and Illinois breathing a sigh of relief. We’re talking about Roger Powell driving and hitting a runner in the lane instead of panicking and air balling a three. This is not the UNLV squad of ’91 that ran people over before losing to Duke in the Final Four. This is a very good team that has yet to really prove itself.

So the next question is: Can Illinois win it all? Yes, absolutely. They are as good as any other team in the nation. But they’ve got a tough road ahead. The overall field in college basketball is much better than it was last season. UNC, Kansas, Oklahoma State, Duke, Wake, Kentucky and Arizona are all terrific, top flight teams, and the second tier of Boston College, Syracuse, UConn, Michigan State, Washington, and Louisville is pretty damn good as well. Illinois will have to beat two, maybe even four, of these teams to win the title. That’s a tall order. I’m pulling for Illinois to win it all, but if it doesn’t happen, I won’t be heart broken. And that is probably the best indicator as to whether or not a team is YOUR team. This team is not my team, but I wish them the best, and I’ll leave them in the hands of the people who love them the most, the people who, regardless of the outcome, will always carry a place in their hearts for these 2005 Fightin’ Illini.

Out of Prescott on 89, then west on I-40 to 93, and now driving north, up through the desert, on our way to Vegas. Stopping at a car landing to look at the Black Mountains to our west. Taking a picture of the two of us that I’m already in love with, the kind of shot I can imagine looking at in twenty years, the kind that makes you smile while wondering whatever happened to those two, free-headed kids. Even in the early stages, it’s been That Kind of Trip. It feels historic, as if we are knowingly living out a great period in our lives, appreciating it in person and, somehow, in memory. Backward and forward at the same time, an old man thinking back on his adventurous days, asking to live in for one more minute, and then being given that chance again and again. Back on 93 now, a thin highway through the mountains, moving in and out of the deep shadows on the road…

We’re driving through Northern Arizona right now, heading towards the Arizona/Nevada border as we pursue Las Vegas. This has been another beautiful trip, with Meg and I splitting the driving duties, breaking it up when we stopped at a landing to get a better view of the Black Mountains. Pretty cool, but I’ve preferred the mountains along the highway, the ones that we keep dipping in and out of.

As for the music situation, we’ve reached a stumper. Biggie in Brooklyn, and Mellancamp in Bloomington, but what goes with Northern Arizona? Who knows. Maybe Horse with No Name. Why? I have no idea. And so with no Northern Arizona-specific CD to hook us in, we started with a mix that we made last night off of the music from Josh’s computer, a tape of ’90s pop which I’ve appropriately titled “Hey! I Remember That Song!” These are all songs that you’d probably claim to be embarrassed to like, but you really do like them, so why not just make one big kick-ass mix and rock it out completely? And now, since we’re fresh out of adieu, we are proud to present the glorious playlist of “Hey! I Remember That Song!”:

How can you not dig that mix? It starts big and never slows down. (Except Total Eclipse of the Heart, of course. That’s a dung missile. Totally reprehensible.)

Back through the mountains, and as the final chords on the Green Jelly track fade, I decide to flip in the Tribe CD that Josh’s roommate burned for me this morning. It’s The Anthology, their greatest hits album, and since the only Tribe album I have is The Low End Theory, this gets a nice slice of their best work from their other albums. I put it in. Meg is sitting sideways in shotgun, shooting the mountains through the window, which we’ve kept very clean just for this exact purpose, and she turns to face me and her hair swings across her face like a movie. Meanwhile, I’m grooving to Busta’s crazy verse on Scenario, and we’re about ten miles or so from the border when the traffic just stops.

We drive slowly, and the traffic moves into two lanes, with police pulling cars off to a side area for what appear to be random inspections for…whatever. At first it looks like it’s just trucks, and then perhaps just “big cars” in general, but a two-door Saturn gets pulled in just ahead of us. Thankfully, we are not pulled in, because if they really did want to do a thorough examination, it would take about forty-five minutes to get my dense car unpacked, searched, and repacked, and frankly, nobody wants to do that, least of all me and Meghan. So we drive past the stop point, and as soon as we begin looping around to our left we spot a sign that reads “HOOVER DAM.”

“Oh cool,” I say. “We’re gonna get to see the Hoover Dam. Did you know this was here?”

“I knew it was here,” she says, dragging out the word “here” and making ambiguous hand motions indicating the general space around us, “but I didn’t realize it was Here.”

As it turns out, there was a lot that we didn’t realize, including the supreme awesomeness of the Hoover Dam. This is a truly incredible sight. You make a strong loop to your left, cutting in and heading a tad south, and then you turn back to your right and take the weaving 93 right towards the water. The whole drive today has been filled with beautiful, awesome natural sights, and then all of a sudden you drive through a canyon and you’re suddenly staring at this massive, man-made structure. Meanwhile, once 93 curves back to the right, the highway is totally along the mountain, and it spins down and then through the dam like a hotel stairwell; you can actually see every bit of this long stretch of curving highway because it’s layered on the mountain, so that while you’re negotiating the curves you’re also slanting downward and moving in that direction as well. It’s crazy.

We stop for a drink and a view at one of the observation/rest areas, and I camp out on a railing overlooking the chasm and take it all in, sketching out a very bad sketch of the whole crazy scene in my poem book to help me remember it all. Then we get back in the car and back onto the winding and descending 93, which is going about six miles an hour through the dam…and that is fine with us, because along with being able to stretch out this view as much as possible, the sounds of so many people walking and driving through this condensed area is very cool…when you’re actually crossing over the dam, it’s all kinds of sensory overload because you’re completely surrounded by these incredibly bold sights of water, highway, concrete, mountain, and sky, and there’s all this interesting noise around you…the whole scene is wild. Driving through with Buggin’ Out bumping on the stereo…Meg leaning all the way out of her window to get some pictures, shooting the clocks of ARIZONA TIME and NEVADA TIME as she sits on the open window groove…picking up little bits of dialogue here and there, conversations floating out of this rough mass of people…One goes: “It’s been a long time; ’82 or ’83 or so…” That’s from these five Harley bikers, and then later, from a mother to her young son in the backseat of their mini-van: “No honey. We’re in the canyon…”

“Vegas baby! VEGAS!” and Meghan joins me in gleeful shouting. Suddenly we’re surrounded by wedding chapels; they’re set up like booths at a carnival or a science fair or something. Everyone has a convertible. A street woman is wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that reads “COME AND GET IT.” It is about 80 degrees in the beginning of March and I am in my car with my girl in Las Freakin’ Vegas, which we have reached via car ride from Chicago. This defies logic. We’re getting hungry, and then Meghan spots a Margaritaville, and we find a parking garage and head in for dinner. They tell us that the wait will be 40 minutes, so we get drinks and poke around, but it ends up only being twelve minutes, and a young guy in some kind of fisherman’s outfit seats us at our boat-table. Margaritaville begins playing, as we’re told it does every hour, and the entire place sings along, us included. Never have I liked that song more. We order, and my burger comes perfectly done, everything where it needs to be and nothing more. Terrific fries…mid-thickness, not many potato guts, slightly crisp. Meghan looks beautiful. I am smiling so big, I can feel it the side of my neck. I’m in Las Vegas with the girl I love, on a road trip around my country, and it’s delightfully warm and my burger is great and the drinks are cold and reassuring. Nothing large or meaningful is happening, but a look at Meg’s face tells me otherwise, and for what it’s worth, at this moment, I am as happy as I’ve ever been.

The greatest non-North Star job I ever had was as a vendor at James Park during the summer of 2001. Located in southwest Evanston, James Park holds eight ball fields, and is home to Little Leaguers, tee-ball players, and adult softball leagues. We all played there growing up—I spent four springs there dirtying up my baseball pants—and the fun of the park was not just in playing baseball, but in seeing all of your friends while they were playing baseball. Four of the diamonds sit in the middle of the park, the mid-size diamonds where we played as middle schoolers, and it was at these four diamonds where some of my fondest childhood memories lie. That may not sound like much, but considering the fact that I was a brutal ballplayer—I once went an entire season without getting a hit—it says a lot. There are only a few specific games that I remember; I never played in a championship game, or even a game to get into a championship game. I was never anywhere close to being the star of my team. I never played in an all-star game. I never even played in the most-improved game. For me, baseball was never about winning or losing, and it was never about getting hits. Instead, it was about friends and playing the game, and what remains are images, sounds, smells, and textures.

First is the uniform, because the process of putting on the uniform was really a transformation from regular kid to “ballplayer.” Dressing for Little League is such a different experience than throwing on shorts and a jersey for basketball or long sleeves for flag football. Take the cup, for example. Little League was the first time I ever wore a cup and a jockstrap. That’s a big change from the sports equipment that I was used to. After the cup went on, the socks went on, long knee socks with the fake stirrup colored into it. Then the three-quarter sleeved undershirt. Then the baseball jersey, and then the baseball pants, both of which were permanently stained with dirt and grass, stains that I wouldn’t let my mom wash out for fear that someone might notice that I had a clean jersey. The jersey was tucked into the pants, and when that was done I grabbed my hat and my glove and headed downstairs to put my cleats on. This was not necessarily a long process, but it was a detailed one, and when I emerged from my room I was a ballplayer.

I remember the car rides to the park, rides where I would sit in the car and do nothing for twenty minutes but pound my fist into the middle of my glove and imagine the plays that I would be making in the field. As soon as we arrived, I would sprint out of the car and meet my team, find a buddy and start warming up, and we would throw back and forth at a distance close enough to ensure that we would make good throws but far enough away to be daring. And then the game would start, and I remember sitting on the bench in our batting order from first batter to last, and high-fiving the opposing catcher when I came to bat when he was a friend of mine from school, and taking infield practice from second base, and the catcher yelling “Balls in! Coming down!” just before the first pitch of each inning, and the far away feeling of playing the outfield, and the terrified feeling when you realize that someone has finally hit the ball in your direction, and it’s just a matter of time now before it lands, and the exhilaration of catching a pop up, and the loneliness of making the last out in a game.

Unlike basketball, football, hockey, soccer, or any other fast-paced game, baseball is slow, and it is because of its tempo that people who play it often recall the smells and the feels of the game. The smell of the grass. The feel of the bat in your hands, or the way your hand fits into your glove—YOUR glove—or the way the laces of the ball rub on your index finger on a throw. And then there’s James Park, which has its own smells and feels. When I was playing there, the infields on the four middle diamonds were all dirt, and when the wind picked up you could hardly see the base path because of the dust in the air. The wind and cold were often a factor in the spring, leading to parents huddling under blankets while sitting on the cold, metal benches. I remember the umpires, and how they wedged spare balls between the backstop and the wood board that was attached to it. I remember the way we used to stick the knobs of the bats into the chain link fence in front of the bench so that the bats would hang upside down in a row, and always just high enough so that they were actually hanging there instead of resting on the ground. I remember the packs of Big League Chew that I kept shoved in my back pants pocket, and the way that I learned to drink at the water fountain with gum in my mouth so that I wouldn’t have to spit it out and get a new wad, and I remember the ice cream truck coming around on very hot days and ballplayers turning back into eleven-year-olds as they ran off the field between innings because they needed money from their folks for a chipwich.

I don’t remember my last game of Little League. I decided to stop playing after my fourth year because I kept missing the playoffs to go to North Star, and as my competitive fire could easily be quenched by playing pickup games over the summer, I didn’t mind ending my baseball career early.

My glove, however, was not finished, and every time I picked it up, stuck my fingers inside of it and pounded it with my fist to break it in, I was returned to James Park, if only in mind and spirit.

So when I had a chance to return in person in the summer of 2000, I didn’t hesitate. Bill Stafford was league commissioner then, and he had an opening for assistant coach of Evanston’s ten-year-old traveling all-star team. I’d never coached before, and it was a really good time. But nothing could compare with the vending job the next year. From four to nine Monday through Thursday, all day Saturday, and noon to six on Sundays, I drove a golf cart around James Park and sold hot dogs, pop, water, and snacks to everyone there: little leaguers, parents, coaches, umps, and the Jamaican guys who played soccer and cricket on a field nearby. It was amazing. Every day I’d get to work, load up my cart, and then just drive around, watching the games and taking in the afternoon and listening to the Cubbies on my portable radio. I got to watch all of the kids who I had coached the year before, and I got to meet all of the umpires and other James Park regulars. The kids knew me, and as soon as they saw me coming they’d run to their parents for money and pick up some water or Gatorade or, most popular of all, a bag of Big League Chew. The umpires always wanted water, and there was one who always bought two hot dogs. He ate one before the game and saved the other for after the third inning, wedging it next to the spare balls between the wood board and the back stop for safe keeping. When the games were over, the sun began to drop and the park lights came up, and the scene changed as the little leaguers, their uniforms dirty and untucked, walked away with their parents leaving room for the adult softball leaguers to take batting practice and warm up their arms.

The Cubs had a great year that year, almost making the playoffs, and when they were playing I’d put my radio on the cart and listen to Pat and Ron call the game. That was an exciting team, led by Sammy, who had his best all-around year of his career with a .328 average, 64 home runs, and 160 RBI, and Jon Lieber, who went 20-6 and made the All-Star game. With EY, Gutierrez, Stairs, Coomer, Rondell White, Tap, Woody, Mueller, Girardi, and the exciting but ultimately overrated midseason acquisition of Fred McGriff, the 2001 Cubbies were a team to remember, and they rode along with me nearly every game that summer. When work was done and I was finished cleaning up, I’d carry the radio into the car and turn the car radio on, and then carry the radio out of the car and into my house so I wouldn’t miss any part of Pat and Ron’s broadcast.

The job slowed down later in the summer; the regular season ended and it was just all-star play, which meant less business. With only one team per age, there weren’t nearly as many games played at James Park in July and early August as there were in May and June—usually just one or two a day—and so I would serve everyone and then sit in my cart near one of the diamonds and watch the all-stars play their games under the hot August sun. The Cubs’ surprising season also slowed down towards the end, as they ran out of steam and fell behind both St. Louis and Houston in the division. But 88 wins is no short order for a team that wasn’t even supposed to win 70, and though the season did not end with a playoff berth, 2001 is a year that Cubs fans remember.

“And I miss the city. I miss being around it, and tapped into it. The west coast is weird. All the games start early as hell.”

“How’s Vegas.” I think for a second, and then laugh. “Pop, I’ll tell ya. Vegas is like a giant pinball machine. And I’m the ball.”

Meghan and I are staying at the Rio tonight—a flashy, lit-up red and blue hotel and casino on the Strip—and we’re doing it for cheap thanks to a super discount that Meghan found by booking the room online.[1] Meg booked two nights at the Rio, but then we decided that we’d leave Prescott a day early and just get on with things in Vegas. We got here at two in the afternoon yesterday, and after dinner at Margaritaville and a bit of exploring, we hopped on I-15 and went south about forty miles to Primm, Nevada, one of those little Vegas aftershock cities that sit around the Vegas radius. Meg looked online yesterday for a place nearby, settling on three within the limits of Primm. Our choices were Nevada Landing Hotel & Casino, Primm Valley Casino Resorts, and Whiskey Pete’s. We chose Whiskey Pete’s. Not hard. That kind of choice pretty much makes itself. Meg found us a room there for 18 bucks a night plus tax, and though we were pretty sure that Whiskey Pete himself was going to be in the parking lot selling smokes, it turned out to be a real classy joint with key cards and everything. Highly recommended.

Of course, most people probably make up the difference and then some out on the floor, so I’m guessing Pete isn’t sweating it…

We took off this morning and headed back on 15 towards Vegas, and I was brought back to the opening paragraph of Fear and Loathing, with Duke and Doctor Gonzo pushing it from L.A. to Vegas on 15 fighting off the bats. I hit the gas and aimed the SCMODS pod toward the Strip. Check-in at the Rio was supposed to be at three, but we got in around one, and so I asked the guy if we could check in early and he said it was cool. And then I handed him my ID, and he saw that I was from Illinois, and we started talking…

“About six years. School. I’m doing graduate work right now in psychology. I miss Chicago, though. I feel disconnected.”

“It’ll happen. Yeah, so, back to this before we forget: one king or two queens?”

He leans back, smiles, and extends his hand. “Good to hear. In that case, I’ve got a room here for you on the 27^th floor, with a great view of the strip.”[2]

“Hell yeah. My girlfriend and I are going to see them next week for Spring Training.”

“That’s awesome. I’m going to the final spring game with a couple of friends, one of the two against Seattle that they’re playing here.”

“Yeah. So, lemme ask you. What are people thinking about Sosa being in Baltimore? I mean, what’s the feeling around the city? I heard people are pretty much glad that he’s gone. Is that right?”

“Yeah, for the most part. I’m disappointed, but if he wanted to come back, he could have. He just needed to apologize.”

“Yup. And they didn’t depend on him like they used to, and that probably got frustrating for him.”

“Well hey man, here are your room keys, and if you guys need anything just let us know.”

After checking in, Meghan and I take the elevator up to the 27^th floor,[3] walk down the hallway, and open the door to the nicest room I’ve ever seen. The place is huge, just a bit smaller than Meghan’s entire apartment, and the view of Vegas is amazing. We are sitting above a city of lights, a city of dreams, a city where anything seems possible. Then we go downstairs and I drop ninety bucks at the Blackjack table in less than a half an hour...

We went back to the room, very frustrated, and with my Vegas buzz partially shot due to my Blackjack experience just a wee bit ago, I follow Meghan to the nickel slots where she sits happily while chewing threw five or six bucks. When she finishes, she turns to me and asks me what I want to do now, but I just shrug, and so we begin wandering aimlessly, and while we wander it occurs to me that there are some people who get Vegas. There are people who come here, and as soon as they set foot-one into the casino they’ve got the place mapped. They’re like Neo at the end of The Matrix, seeing through all the lights and flash and feeling like beings of a higher life force. I’m sure these people come to Vegas and everything just makes sense to them, and I’m sure that even if they don’t do it out loud, a part of them is laughing at the newcomers as we scurry around the floor like wind-up puppies, or a bunch of ants who have just stumbled upon a giant mound of sugar.

We’re walking around as I’m thinking this, though it’s not even walking so much as it is filling in the spaces left by others, and as we weave between old women on their way to the slot machines and young guys on their way to the craps tables and cocktail waitresses and casino employees and families carrying their luggage towards the hotel elevators, and as we bounce off of machine after machine and as our eyes bounce around from a line of chorus girls doing a show to a traveling cigar cart to a Chippendales dancer entertaining guests, suddenly in this jumbled mess that is Las Vegas comes a light, a fabulous beacon of light that I am instantly drawn towards, and now I am in control and I take hold of Meghan’s hand and with the grace and vision of Walter Payton on his way to the endzone I lead her in and out of pathways that nobody else sees and I watch as people who used to be me wander around with a confused and awe-inspired look in their eye and I shoot straight past these people with a knowledge and foresight that only comes when a person knows in their heart what their purpose in life is and I walk fast but sure until I have reached the source of the light, and immediately my eyes grow large and I know that at last, I have found my niche in Vegas. The sports book.

Vegas is for a lot of people, and if you’ve ever been there then you know what I mean. Walk down the Strip for five minutes and it’s like you’ve walked into the census bureau. Old, young, kids, teenagers, babies, white, black, Mexican, Asian, Indian, Christian, Jewish, rich, poor, college students, tourists, foreigners, married couples, couples soon to be married, couples wishing they weren’t married…it never ends. Vegas attracts everybody, because it is a city where everyone has the chance to feel like royalty for at least a moment. And to obtain that feeling, you don’t really have to be smart or talented or rich. You just have to be lucky. Don’t know anything about cards but you know how to add to 21? Play the good odds of Blackjack, and just ask the dealer when to hit. Don’t know anything about dice but you know how to throw them? Play craps. Don’t know anything about anything but you know how to put coins into slots? Play the slot machines. Sure, if you want to win consistently, you have to be good. You’re not going to roll up to a Poker table and make money all day long. But you might get a lucky hand here or there, and that’s all people are looking for, an opportunity to leave town, return home, and tell somebody that they won.

That’s what makes the sports book special. It doesn’t attract just anybody. It attracts sports fans. That’s it. That’s the only people there. Whether a person’s main objective at the sports book is to gamble or watch sports, that’s a different story. But everybody here is focused on the games, and that’s a good feeling. It’s rare to be among such a high percentage of zoned-in sports fans. You go to a Super Bowl party, and you get a bunch of people who just want to see “the show.” You go to a ballgame, and you get a bunch of people who just want to see “the park.” But you go to the sports book, and there’s nothing extra to look at or experience. There’s a huge wall in front of you with about twenty screens of varying size showing different sporting events, there’s a big screen on the wall to your left that shows the odds for all of the games, matches, and races. And there’s a bunch of seats in the middle, half of which are the kinds of chair/half desks that you sat at in high school, the other half of which are long rows of booths to watch horse racing. And that’s it. That’s the whole deal. I wouldn’t want to watch a big game there, or any game that I am intensely passionate about—like a playoff game or a Bears-Packers game—but to just walk in and be immediately surrounded by sports, numbers related to sports, and people entirely focused on sports…it’s a great feeling.

Meghan and I sit down, and to my delight the Bulls-Bucks game is on. Meghan enjoys watching basketball, but as a former gymnast she is more excited for the TVs that are showing a Nebraska-Minnesota college gymnastics tournament. I look to my left, where they are listing the early World Series odds. The Cubs are at the top at 3 to 1.

She looks at me. “You know better than to bet money on the Cubs.” She laughs. “Maybe you should put some one the Sox.”

The waitress comes by, and asks the two guys seated to our left if they want another drink, and they each order one, and then she asks Meghan and I, and we order ours. One of the guys gets up to go to the bathroom, and then the waitress comes back, sets our drinks down, and leaves without asking for money. This is curious.

“Excuse me,” I say, leaning towards the guy sitting two seats over, “what’s the drink situation here? I mean, when do you pay?”

“I don’t think you do.” He’s a college kid, about my age. “We’ve been here for a while and haven’t paid yet. I’ve just been tipping. If you do that, they keep coming back.”

We sit and drink our beers, Meghan oohing and ahhing at each impressive mat routine and me yelling excitedly at each key play by the Bulls. The kid next to us seems focused in on the Missouri Valley Conference championship game between Creighton and SMS. The room is filled with loud cheers and groans, most of which are driven by money rather than love, and at the sound of each one my eyes shoot away from the Bulls game to find the game that has provoked the yell. But the Bulls game always brings me back, each and every time.

Though indistinguishable to the average person, a real sports fan can always tell the difference between a money-driven reaction and a love-driven reaction. There’s not usually a difference in the sound of the groan, but watch the person’s body language and the look in their eyes. If a person groans and then looks like he is thinking really hard, it’s a money-driven reaction; he’s either figuring out how much he’s lost on that bet or figuring out how much he’s lost altogether or figuring out how many bets he’ll have to make to cover what he’s just lost. If a person groans and then looks like you’ve just run over his cat, that’s a love-driven reaction.

At a commercial, I take a glance over at the big screen which is showing the Creighton-SMS game. It’s the second half, and Creighton is threatening to extend their lead, and when they hit a three SMS calls timeout and the guys to our left groan. It looks like they’re thinking.

“Not much,” says the guy I was talking to first. His buddy is now back from the bathroom. “We just wanted to bet on something. It’s Vegas, ya know?”

“They’re doing pretty well this year. I’m surprised. They came out of nowhere.”

“Lemme ask you something,” I begin, as the waitress comes back with our next round. Meghan hands her two bucks for our two drinks, and hands me my beer. “Were you a Hornets fan?”

“Oh man, it sucks. I mean, they’d only been around since ’88, but we had season tickets, so we were really into them. And plus they were really popular, and had some popular players—LJ, Zo, Muggsy, Dell Curry, those guys. So yeah, it sucks.”

“They’re OK. I mean I like ‘em, and I guess they’re my team now. So that’s cool. But it’s not the same. Not yet, anyway.”

We hang out there for a few hours, getting good and drunk on booze and sports. A night at the Sports Book. Mark it, Dude.

We’ve packed up and checked out of the Rio, and as soon as Meghan gets out of the bathroom we’ll be driving back to Phoenix. We’re walking through the Flamingo, grabbing pizza by the slice and taking a final look at the sports book, and as Meg ducked into the bathroom I decided to check out the Cubs, who are playing the Rangers and losing 2-1 in the third. LaTroy is on the mound, and as he rocks and fires, my phone rings. It’s Dan.

“Let me tell you something,” he begins. “We’re doing the Big Ten right this year. Top secret. It was a joke last year.”

“Good. You, me, probably Shlensky and Jacob, and that’s it.” I can hear him getting excited. “We’re bringing it back! Old school Big Ten!”

When a person reaches his or her tenth summer at camp, a celebration called the Big Ten is held in that person’s honor. It’s a big deal. Former camp people come up as surprise guests; it’s basically “This is Your Life” mixed with the Friar’s Club Roasts…(Dean Martin/Frank Sinatra, not Jeff Ross/Jimmy Kimmel.) The catch is that the Big Ten honorees do not know the date of the Big Ten, and so along with the sudden surprise of the actual celebration, Big Ten “fakes” are thrown in which the Big Ten people are brought down in front of camp, followed by the Big Ten committee (as it were) driving up in some kind of vehicle—a camp van, or a golf cart, or the four-wheeler—and then running frantically in front of everyone with whistles and silly hats before pulling out a giant piece of butcher paper. The silly hat people then slowly unroll the paper, revealing words that are read off by the rest of camp, usually something to this effect:

The silly hat-wearing whistle blowers then crumble up the paper and hop back into their vehicle of choice driving away in a haze of whistles as everyone laughs it up, leaving the Big Ten people to laugh a bit themselves, smile, shake their heads, and rejoin the rest of camp as the interrupted activity quickly resumes itself.

This all sounds fairly simple, but where things get tricky is in the planning. It’s nearly impossible to keep a secret at North Star, particularly over the summer, particularly something that everyone is already interested in. Additionally, getting a slew of visitors to all agree on one date always proves difficult, and once that’s done, you still have to hope that they respect your wishes for absolute secrecy by not calling their friends at camp to prepare them for their impending visit.

This was all hard enough a year ago, when only Glick was celebrating his Big Ten. This year we have four: Rutkoff, Heldman, Jeff McCormack, and my brother in camping Mike Swiryn, who I met on the bus ride to Tamarak Day Camp on the first day of the summer when I was six. Preperation for the Big Ten begins early, as we need to begin collecting pictures from the Big Ten families for their collages. We also need to figure out the date.

“…but we won’t get that until our schedule is settled for the summer, and until we talk to Leb,” Dan says. “For now, I just want to get this rolling so that it’s all tight and square, because everybody knew the date for Glick’s last year, and that’s not happening again.”

The coolest thing about having a Big Ten is simply being able to spend ten summers at North Star. Most of our Big Ten men were campers, and since most kids come to camp for the first time between the ages of nine and eleven, that means that they spend between five and seven years as campers, leaving three to five years on staff in order to have a Big Ten. This is not as easy as it sounds, because the shift from camper to counselor is a big one. Enjoying North Star as a camper is one thing; enjoying it as a counselor is all together different. The job is not for everyone; it is, after all, a 24-hour low-paid job dealing with children that lasts for nine weeks straight. I loved being a camper, but I absolutely cherish my time as a counselor. That’s the way it goes: if you dig this job, it’s significantly better than being a camper.

But along with loving the job and being dedicated to camp, you also have to ignore the “real world” pull that begins plucking staff away somewhere around their collegiate years. There are plenty of guys who go strong all the way to seven or eight, and then have to bail out because their career of choice requires that they get a summer internship. It happens all the time. So for everything to come together, for a person to give themselves to North Star for ten summers generally between the ages of ten and 25, it’s very cool.

Camp is filled with history; everywhere you look there is a tribute to a long time member of the North Star community. The program office is called Denny’s Den, named after 20 Year Man and long time program director Dennis Shefcyk. The climbing wall is called Don’s Descent, named after 20 Year Man Don Gibson. Our two baseball diamonds are Lou’s Diamond, named after our founder Lou Rosenblum, and Dan’s Diamond, remaned last summer in honor of Dan Lichtenstein. Mike Hall is named for Lou and Renee’s son Mike, who died as a child, and inside Mike Hall hang plaques commemorating every North Star camper musical, dating back to the early ’70s. And of course, there is the Lodge, the large building at the center of camp that acts as camp’s central nervous system. The office is in the Lodge, as are Leb and Sue’s offices. It also holds the kitchen and the “mess hall,” known as the Inner Lodge (where the Seniors eat), and the Outer Lodge (where everyone else eats). And hanging from the walls and rafters of the Inner and Outer Lodge are pictures upon pictures, dating back to camp’s inaugural summer of 1945.

The Lodge is filled with artifacts, pictures, and various plaques, but among the most special are the Big Ten plaques, where the names of every North Star ten year man or woman is listed. When I first came to North Star, I was in awe of this towering and layered history, but the Big Ten plaque interested me the most. I saw 11 names go up on that board during my five years as a camper, and when I returned in 2002, the latest names included Marc Siegel and Evan Minkus, two of my camper-contemporaries. Now, as of last summer, the name BRIAN GLICKMAN is burned into that board, and after this summer, we will see ALEX HELDMAN, JEFF MCCORMACK, ROBBY RUTKOFF, and MIKE SWIRYN all carved in as well. By the end of 2006, there could be as many as twelve more.

The things that mean the most to me cannot be carved into a wooden plaque, and regardless of whether or not I make it to my Big Ten, I will be happy with what I have given camp and what camp has given me. The board doesn’t really matter…but man! What a cool thing. Our group has thrived together, as a group, and when our camping days are done, most of our names will be on that board. Some won’t, but that’s not the point. Each of those guys represents our current group; each one is a testament to what we’ve accomplished. The most Big Tens ever in a year were six in 1988, and what always struck me when looking at those six names was how cool it must have been to be at camp during that time in which so many people who were so dedicated to North Star were all there at once. It’s not easy to get to ten, and in ten or twenty or fifty years when campers and counselors look at that plaque, they will see the large clumpings of names starting in 2004, and they will know that, at least for a while, camp was overflowing with people who truly loved it. Whether my name goes up on that board next summer or some time else is incidental; I am a part of this group forever. The board doesn’t matter in and of itself, but it is hard proof of what we’ve done, and who we did it with. After this summer, I feel like I’ll be able to point to those last five names and say to my kids, “Look at that. I was a part of that.” To me, that’s all you can ask for.

Something happened today in the world of sports that made me yell and slap the table in celebration, and it wasn’t Northwestern beating Michigan in the first round of the Big Ten tourney, (though I am excited about that, and about the matchup with Illinois set for tomorrow). Nope, the happening in the world of sports that most excited me, believe it or not, was Brett Favre announcing his return to the Packers for the 2005 season. As soon as I read that I was pumped for this coming season.

Am I mad? Have I gone insane? Not at all. This is not Bill Laimbeer we’re talking about. It’s not John Starks, it’s not Hugh Hollins, and it’s certainly not Charles Martin. This is Brett Favre, one of the greatest quarterbacks in the history of the game, one of the greatest competators in the history of sport, a guy who is our rival only because he plays for the Packers, not because he’s pissed us off in some assholish way. This is not a man who has made enemies with the Bears by being a jerk or being a cheat; this is a man who has made enemies with the Bears not just by being a Packer, but by being THE Packer, a position he has held for over a decade. For thirteen years and twenty-six games, Brett Favre has made it his business to dominate our team, and I hate him for that. But you still gotta love the guy. How can you not? He makes the game more exciting, and he loves the game. I cherish his career, and that’s why I’m glad he’ll be back for 2005. Playing the Packers won’t be the same without him. Imagine turning on a Bears-Packers game in 2006 or 2007, and seeing someone other than number 4 under center for Green Bay. It’ll feel weird, won’t it? I’m not ready to say goodbye to Favre, and not just because I want to watch him play. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Favre because Rex was out for almost all of last year, and if this Bears team is going to return to the playoffs under Rex and Lovie, then I want them to go through Brett Favre to do it. I want the Bears to wax Brett up and down the field. I want him to take his Soldier Field curtain call before the game with Bear fans cheering him respectfully and passionately as they honor him like he deserves, and then I want a dominant Bear pass rush to kick his ass all afternoon. I want him to throw five interceptions—actually, I want the Bears to intercept five of his passes; there’s a difference—and then watch on the sideline as Rex hooks up with Muhammed, Gage, and Wade for touchdown after touchdown. I want to send those Packer fans back to Green Bay knowing two things:

1. That Brett Favre truly was one of the greatest players of all time, as even Bear fans gave him a standing ovation at Soldier Field, and…

2. …that the Brett Favre era of Bears-domination is over. Long live the Chicago Bears.

Spending three nights in Vegas brought a question to mind, one that I’ve wondered about many times before but one that really consumed me these past three days: is poker a sport, and if so, why?

This gets back to the old debate about the difference between a sport and a game. Some things are obvious; football is obviously a sport, while Monopoly is obviously a game. Poker seems to be a game—after all, it is a card game—but then again, tomorrow I am going to see the Cubs play in a Spring Training game. So what gives? After thinking about it for a while, I decided that there must be something that makes poker a sport, since ESPN and every other sports station is broadcasting it these days. It is, at the very least, a very sporting game.

“It’s not a sport,” Meghan says, after very little deliberation. “You don’t use your muscles. There’s nothing athletic about it. Isn’t that the whole idea of sports? A competition that makes you sweat?”

Like many college kids, my brother has gone big money into poker. When Meghan and I got to his apartment the night before the Super Bowl, he and Mank were hosting a game at their place. And it never ends. Those two kids play all the time. They even play online at night, in their own rooms, screaming and hooting from behind closed doors as the money on their credit cards goes up and down. And they have poker conversations, the way that Ben and I talk sports. MJ will tell Mankameyer about how a guy got whatever hand he got and then how it was so ridiculous that this guy did whatever he did and Mankameyer will tell him how “that sucks” and they will console each other over the perils of playing poker with people who “really don’t know what the hell they are doing.”

Mike picks up after a few rings. It sounds like he just woke up. It is 2:30 in the afternoon.

At that, he sits up. I know this because I can hear him swing his body upwards. I’ve gotten his full attention with poker, and he just launches into it.

“Not only is poker a sport, but it is a mentally, physically, and emotionally taxing one. See, if you’re playing poker, and I don’t mean just playing a game here or there, but if you’re really playing poker, then you’ve got to be ready for a game whenever one comes up, because you want the best competition and you need to be playing on a regular basis to stay sharp. If you’re really playing poker, like the guys in the WSOP, then you’re always thinking about moves and strategies. And then the act of betting and bluffing, that’s a physical act, because you have to be in total control of your body. It doesn’t matter with some people, like if you’re playing with guys who don’t play much and aren’t that good, but in the games that I play in—in Hold ‘Em—with the people I play with, you really need to know how to bet, and you need to be so keyed into the game, because one slip up on one hand or one bluff, and you’re screwed. So if you really want to be playing…the guys on TV, that’s their life, so for them they have to be living it and thinking it all day long. It’s a mental thing, it’s a physical thing, and they have to hide their emotions in order to be effective…so, yeah definitely, it’s definitely a sport.”

“Wow.” When MJ wants to, he can really sell a point. Meghan and I are nodding. “Mike, I gotta say, we’ve been in Vegas for three days and I’ve been pitching that question to dealers and players and waitresses, and that is the best answer I’ve gotten. I’m not sure if I agree with it, but if I’m hopping on the poker-is-a-sport train, it’ll be because of you.”

For dinner tonight, Meghan, Shanna, Don, Bonnie, and I go to the Gordons’ friends’ home. Randy and Rosemary Hayden live outside Phoenix with their two children Kevan and Kurtis, though I quickly discover that our good friends the Haydens are, in fact, Packers fans. Rosemary grew up in Milwaukee, and while Randy grew up in Glen Ellyn, he moved to Milwaukee later in life. Kevan and Kurtis are around my and Meghan’s age, and though Randy and Don worked together in Illinois in their 20s, the entire family is Packers’ crazy. Their license plate rests snug in a Packers license plate holder, and fluttering above their mini-van is a Packers flag. Another Packers flag hangs off of the front porch, which one can only reach after walking past the Packers mini-windmill in the front lawn. As such, I decide not to eat their barbeque.

I’m half kidding. They are very nice people, as most Packers fans are. Bears fans and Packers fans are cut from the same lightweight nylon mesh cloth. We are both passionate, knowledgeable, respectful, and loyal. Randy and Rosemary are extraordinarily gracious and hospitable as are their two sons, and though football came up a few times, the conversation remained polite. Even after I told them that I was excited about Favre’s return because I wanted to see the Bears “wax his ass up and down the field,” and even after Randy returned that comment by casually wondering “which Pro Bowl quarterback would be starting for the Bears,” we still were getting along fine. We had burgers and dogs—they took my odd eating habits in stride—drank a few beers, and while the adults were reminiscing and laughing it up, Meghan, Shanna, Kevan, Kurtis and I were watching some Dave Chappelle stand up, telling stories about whatever came to mind, and, well, laughing it up. They really are wonderful people.

It is a mysterious, engaging, and excited look, like the one that Sean Connery gave Harrison Ford in Last Crusade when Henry was telling Indy about the three tests that would lead them to the Holy Grail.

Without waiting to hear my answer, Kevan turns off the TV and he and Kurtis get up and begin walking down the hallway. It isn’t a long hallway, but it is a bendy one, and as we pass by a bathroom and two bedrooms, I get a deep, sick feeling as to what we are going to see. Meghan and Shanna follow behind, both with absolutely no clue as to what Kevan wants to show us. But I know. Somehow, I know.

Finally, (it seems like forever), we get into Kevan and Kurtis’ parents’ bedroom. My eyes get big. In the back of the room, I see it, hanging there, on the wall. A regular eight by eleven piece of paper inside a plain, black frame. It all seems very simple and unimposing. But I know.

I breathe deeply. “It’s stock,” I say, shaking my head and smiling at the same time. “Randy and Rosemary own a piece of the Green Bay Packers.”

It is amazing. It is beautiful. It is awful. It is incredible. And it provokes two entirely opposite emotional reactions at the exact same time. I just stand there, staring at it, in awe and in anger, repeating to myself over and over again: “That’s awesome. That sucks. That’s fucking awesome. That fucking sucks. You guys suck. That thing rocks. This sucks.”

There’s no denying it: the fact that the Green Bay Packers are owned by their fans is one of the absolute greatest things in the world. Not just in sports. In the world. It’s incredible. And it’s so incredible that it absolutely sucks, because I know that Bears fans will never get to experience anything as wondrous as being a stockholder of our football team. I’ve always felt that teams belong to the fans. Well this team really belongs to the fans. What an amazing, terrible, wonderful item. Just hanging there. On the wall.

Today, for the first time in my life, I felt envious of people who live in Arizona. This does not happen often. Chicago is my home, and while I am enjoying my travels and could consider living someplace else for a short period of time, I definitely want to live in the greater Chicagoland area for the majority of my life. Never once have I been someplace and thought to myself, “I would rather live here than Chicago, because this place has (fill in the blank).” But today, for the first time ever, that thought crossed my mind, and the reason for that consideration was simple: spring training.

The Cubs played the Arizona Diamondbacks today, and we were there. I was the first up today, and by the time Meghan was awake SANTO 10 was on my back, tucked into a pair of khaki shorts with a belt, a pair of gym shoes, my North Stars hat—that was the only item throwing off the ensemble—and I was pounding a baseball into my glove, back and forth, back and forth, just to be ready. Because I was a guest of the Gordons’, I did not want to be pushy, but their propensity for tardiness is well known to their entire extended family, and as a trip to my first ever spring game was on the way I decided that if there was ever an appropriate time for a guest to hurry his hosts along, this was it. And so I did, helping Don hustle the ladies into the rented mini van. There was a near problem on our way to HoHoKam, as Meghan and Shanna wanted to stop at a Wal-Mart type store to buy new bikinis, and it was up to me and Don to keep the party moving. By the time we got to the park, I was so excited that I very nearly hopped out of the moving van on our way into the parking lot. Granted we were moving at about three miles per hour at that point, and I still had a tinge of built-in politeness gnawing at the back of my head, but with my first spring training game sooooooo close within my grasp, I was no longer in control of my limbs and impulses.

“Oh my god I have to go let me out I’m getting out!” By the time I finished that sentence I was already out on the sidewalk, leaping out of my shoes as I fell into the spring training crowd. What a wonderful experience! Truly one of the great times a sports fan can have. HoHoKam Park in Mesa, Arizona is like the family version of Wrigley Field (because, let’s face it, there’s a lot of inappropriateness going down around Wrigley). As soon as you turn your car off the road and onto the stadium entrance, you are surrounded by baseball fans. Going to a spring training game is, I think, the closest I’ll ever get to walking around the pre-game crowd in Casey at the Bat. The parking lot is on grass, fans tailgating and playing catch, the whole scene forming a brilliant combination between some of the best aspects of Wrigley and Soldier Field. Around the park are fans of all ages who are absolutely amongst the happiest people on Earth. I was hopping around as soon as I got out of the van, and I did so without seeing a large group of fans around my age who were clearly pros at this.

“First time?” one asked me, a guy in his mid-20’s wearing an Anaheim Angels hat.

“Yeah! I’m! Pretty! Excited!” Then I settled down, a bit, and asked the first question on my mind. “Are you guys pissed about the L.A. Angels?”

“Not pissed…it’s just stupid, really. The team hasn’t moved. Just the name changed. I guess they think that it’ll draw younger fans, and more from L.A.”

Normally I would be able to focus on this kind of a conversation. I love talking to strangers and learning more about the thought processes of sports fans, but there was no way around my true focus of the day, which was this baseball game. The Angels fans seemed to pick up on that, and so…

“Kind of. I’m on a road trip with my girlfriend right now, and her parents and sister flew out here to meet us and bought these tickets. I’ve been to Wrigley a ba-jillion times, but I’ve never been to spring training.”

One of the biggest draws of spring games is the access; spring training games are basically professional baseball players playing on the nicest little league field ever built. The Cubs playing at a nicer James Park; that’s what we’ve got here. Don and Bonnie bought lawn seats, which allowed us to set our blankets up anywhere on the big lawn in the outfield. We went to right-center and parked ourselves, where we had a wonderful view of the game, in an uncrowded, sun-filled area. Fans sat all around us, fans of different ages and different team loyalties, most of whom were Cubs fans and Diamondbacks fans though I saw fans of ten other teams there at least. The day was Arizona gorgeous, as if it was expecting us, and when the players trotted out onto the field we clapped our hands.

Perhaps one of the biggest differences between baseball and any of the other Big Four sports in America—and perhaps this is a clue as to why the game has been so revered for so long—is that only with baseball are the exhibition games satisfying to the fan. I’ve been to Bears preseason games and I’ve watched Bulls and Blackhawks preseason games on television, and they are boring. No other way to put it. Not the real thing in any sense, and not just in the level of play. Certainly the level of play in exhibition games of any sport—baseball included—is lower than that of a regular season game, but there are two very big reasons for that: many of the players playing are often less talented youngsters trying to make the team, and the team is still getting back into the groove after the long offseason. And of course the games are significantly less important than regular season games, yet spring training baseball always seems fresh and vital, and always, always important. There’s something pure about baseball…it is, in many ways, the most earthly of all big sports. Football is a game of intelligence combined with brute physical strength and unchecked insanity, basketball is a game of teamwork, athleticism, and fluidity, but baseball is fairly simple. To quote Bull Durham: “This is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball.” It’s very reactionary, very natural. There’s not a lot of time to think. The pitcher has to pitch the ball somewhere near the batter. The batter then has a split second to swing or not swing. The fielders then have a split second to make the correct play.

Yes, baseball is the earthly sport, because it is a sport that is pretty much about cause and effect, and about fairness. Because of the defense controls the ball, the pitcher must be fair and give the batter an honest chance at hitting it. Certainly there is thought put into baseball—Greg Maddux and Tony Gwynn would not have careers if there was no thinking in the game—but the game is more about nature than about intelligence, more about fairness than brute strength. Daunte Culpepper can throw a jump ball to Randy Moss so that only Moss can catch it, and Shaquille O’Neal can stand in the post and use his size to dominate. Likewise, Michael Vick can snap the ball and take off and run, and Michael Jordan can take the inbound pass, go coast-to-coast on the dribble, and dunk the ball while defenders try to catch him. These guys dominate simply on the merits of their own freakish athleticism. But I, Jack M Silverstein, could get into the batter box against Roger Clemens, and Clemens would have to give me a chance to hit the ball lest I end up on first via a walk or a hit by pitch.

You throw the ball, you hit the ball, you catch the ball. Fairness, reactions, cause and effect. Even in a spring game, pitchers will throw over the plate, and even in a spring game batters will swing at good pitches. There’s no way to “take it easy” like in hoops or football or even hockey because there’s no way to lessen the effort that goes into a natural reaction.

HoHoKam is a wonderful place to watch a baseball game, and after the fourth inning Meg and I got up to walk around. I was tossing a baseball into my glove almost on instinct, still jazzed up. Meg was wearing the bikini top that she had bought earlier that day; she looked damn sexy in it, and as we walked by the Diamondbacks’ bullpen in right field, four or five of Arizona’s pitchers turned and checked her out. Meg didn’t notice right away, but I did, and rather than putting my arm around her or flashing the guys a territorial looks as I might do in a bar, I nudged her and directed her towards their stares. She laughed. Why was I so happy to have Major League Baseball players checking out my girlfriend? The world may never know.

The Cubs played well, but the Diamondbacks, led by former White Sox shortstop and, according to Luke, devil-incarnate, Royce Clayton, were able to hold on for a 6-4 victory. The score, however, was incidental; I’ve only remembered it because it happened today. And perhaps that is the ultimate nod to the wonder and joy of spring training baseball: winning and losing is truly secondary.

[1] Tripreservations.com. I highly recommend it.

[2] It’s entirely possible that this was total bullshit, but it always feels good to feel like you’re getting a deal, especially when it’s Cubs-related and you’re out of state.

[3] “27^th floor!??” (“1955!??” “McFly Farm!??”)