Birthdays and Worst Days
Since I’m the wife of a college football official, people often ask if I attend all my husband’s games. I do not. I travel to bowl games, games in cities I’ve never been to, or games at locations I love.
This year, Tony invited me to the Duke at Northwestern game in Chicago. On my birthday. Another official’s wife was attending so it would be like an extended double-date.
On Friday, the other couple — Kelly and Steve — picked us up at the airport around noon. The restaurant where we lunched resembled a sprawling dive bar from the outside, but inside we gawked at the giant cold case of seafood flown in daily from Hawaii.
While we waited for our meals, Kelly and I enjoyed giant mai tai cocktails. Since the guys aren’t allowed to drink alcohol the day before a game, they settled for a plate of hot rolls shining with melted butter and dotted with minced garlic. Thankfully dinner was late that night, after the crew’s weekly pre-game meeting to discuss game film, team tendencies, and rules.
The next day when Kelly and I drove to Ryan Field, the nearby parking lots were full, so we parked in a family’s yard, wedged in tight with a dozen other cars.
“College tuition money?” I asked, handing over some bills.
“You got it!” the mom said.
At half time, four high school bands took the field to perform a tribute to those lost in the Highland Park shooting earlier this summer, during their fourth of July parade.
I pecked the shoulder of a man sitting in front of us. “Were you there?” I asked.
He nodded, his face grim. “I heard the shots, dropped my phone and ran.”
His friend chimed in. “Fortunately my kids are now at the age — 17 and 22 — where they don’t love parades any more. So we didn’t even go.”
We discussed the event a while longer. It was sobering to be with people
who’d either been there or very close.
One of their friends was the father of a drummer on the field. He told us his son’s name and pointed him out. When the boy marched in front of us, we all yelled his name and he waved.
At the end of the performance, just as Marshall University (in West Virginia) fans say, “We are Marshall!” the crowd at Ryan Field called out, “We are Highland Park!”
That evening in downtown Chicago, the four of us sipped beverages outside on a patio while watching boats scoot up and down the Chicago River. Hungry, we set out in search of supper. We scored with the first restaurant we came across: Quartino’s Ristorante, a two-story Italian spot. The first floor was packed, but upstairs we were seated at a table on the balcony above the street.
Our dinner included the best burrata and tomato appetizer I’ve ever tasted, and after our entrees, the attentive server surprised me with a martini glass heaped with scoops of fruity sorbet. As soon as our table started singing, “Happy Birthday,” the entire balcony chimed in.
Our next stop was The Redhead Piano Bar. The brief wait to get inside was absolutely worth it. The joint was seriously jumping with a multi-generational crowd accompanying the sassy pianist as she belted out Journey’s “Small Town Girl,” Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire,” and Don McClean’s “American Pie.”
Soon after, we waited 30-minutes to descend into a basement speakeasy known as Three Dots and a Dash. The Polynesian decor reminded me of the Makiki Supper Club on Route 60 in Huntington, West Virginia. As a kid, I loved going there with my parents to enjoy pu pu platters and fancy drinks garnished with miniature umbrellas.
The highlight of the night was our cocktail for four, delivered in a cloud of dry ice fog. In a sizeable fishbowl, lots of rum, tropical fruit juices and orchid flowers swirled around a mountain of ice. With eighteen-inch straws we made quick work of the delicious concoction.
The next morning, a hard rain drenched Chicago nonstop. So much for finding a cute cafe for breakfast. To make our flight, Tony searched on his phone for Ubers to the airport. To no avail.
A giant wedding crowd was exiting the hotel. There was a Bears’ game after lunch. Tourists were headed home. Everyone needed transportation.
The hotel’s bell hop saved the day. “I’m calling you two a taxi. These days they’re less expensive and more available than Ubers.” A cab arrived ten minutes later. At almost half the price of the Ubers Tony had attempted to schedule.
At Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, as Tony and I shuffled shoeless through security, everything suddenly stopped. Including my heart. When a TSA employee ordered everyone to stand still, I feared a terrorist threat had been discovered. Instead, a military entourage arrived, one member
holding high an American flag. The date was September 11.
The group’s commander spoke loudly. “A moment of silence, please, for all who fell on September 11, 2001.” My eyes filled with tears as I recalled that dreadful day.
Back in Pittsburgh, as Tony and I walked to our car, I softly sang the “Star Spangled Banner.” Twice.