A Sweet Sadness

 

I am old enough to remember JFK’s inauguration and Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon.  In all that time, I have never once set foot in Europe, or any other continent for that matter.  My daughter, who is barely old enough to tie her shoes, is in Europe for the second time in six years.

 

In 2013, Clare travelled to Holland for softball.  This June, she’s in Graz, Austria, as the wife of a college football coach; the mighty Elmhurst Bluejays are playing an exhibition game against a team the Austrian equivalent of the Chicago Dogs of Rosemont, probably more independent than professional.  Tomorrow, everyone is off to Venice.  Not bad for an erstwhile Morton Mustang.

 

Six years ago, we saw Clare off at the airport and then went for breakfast at a favorite spot of ours on the North Side; we’ve been going there for over forty years.  Trust me, there’s nothing like eating outside in and around Chicago, if for no other reason than you can eat outside in and around Chicago.  The cold, the rain, the snow, the wind, none of it matters because here you are eating outside.  Today, we ate at that same place, if not under the same tree, close to it.  Michele had an Oslo omelet, I had a Stockholm.

 

Somewhere between the cinnamon roll topped with hot frosting and our omelets, I started to read the Sun-Times’ sports’ section; for the past few months, they go all out on a Saturday, and, truth be told, they do a nice job covering stuff the Tribune can’t be bothered with, e.g., full-length stories on the Sky, the Wolves and the prep baseball playoffs.  It was like jumping back in time.  If only.

The Bears being the Bears and this being Chicago, there was also ample coverage of a centennial salute to the team.  Butkus, Ditka, et al were in town.  There was a picture of William “Refrigerator” Perry in a wheelchair, and it made me feel sad that a 57-year old former athlete should now be in such poor health.  Then I turned the page to see a picture of an emaciated Gale Sayers sitting in a wheelchair; the ravages of dementia and who knows what else have reduced Sayers to a 130-pound shadow of himself.

And I tried not to cry and thus ruin so beautiful a morning as we were having.