Eight Miles High

You couldn’t avoid the Blackhawks’ victory celebration last week, even if you tried.  So many people were expected in downtown Chicago Metra had to run a special train schedule.  Michele usually takes the 8:17; to accommodate Blackhawk Nation (and doesn’t a certain Native-American leader appreciate the irony of that term) last Thursday, we had to get to the stop by 7:52 AM.  Who knew people drank so early in the day?

Michele told me that evening she could hear the parade pass from 58 floors up, and some coworkers were able to point out that silvery speck as the Stanley Cup.  The most interesting part of the rally, though, was the demographics.  Hockey may or may not be getting more diverse.  But the people coming out to see the NHL’s version of the Holy Grail really do trend young.  I know Clare would’ve given anything to be in Soldier Field rather than Valparaiso.  Me, I couldn’t care less.

Did I attend the White Sox World Series rally ten years ago this autumn?  No.  There just comes a point in life where priorities change.  You realize stuff has to get done, and nobody else is going to do it.  I really, really loved Paul Konerko as a ballplayer (and Walt Williams, too, for that matter), but Paulie never pitched in around the house, no matter how many times I stayed up late to watch games from the West Coast.  I am at an age where it’s enough to cheer from the living room couch, though I suspect half the western world will come out to rally after a Cubs’ World Series win.  I can just see George F. Will and Bozo leading the parade.