These are My Mountains

I love Chicago. Yesterday I took my brother Paul to a Cubs game, and Friday 1:20 games really are the best. My wife and I have half-season tickets, and as I’ve written before, Wrigley helps me do the one thing I struggle with most—be present. I can’t think about work, I can’t plan the next project, I just sit in my seat, breathe in the lake breeze, and enjoy being right where I am.

Paul met me at my house, and we drove to my usual parking spot on Southport in front of the Jewel. For the ninth time in a row—it was open. A streak that deserves a banner. I pulled off a quick parallel park (this topic deserves its own blog post in the future). Then we walked to my favorite pregame restaurant. It’s not all Cubs, all the time—I love the team, but I can’t let them crush my spirit every year. Life has enough of that built in.

Over lunch and a couple of drinks, we talked about the usual things—family, friends, what ails us. These are the conversations that remind me why these outings matter. The walk to the park, the slow climb to our seats on the third base line, the first sip of a beer as the field opens up in front of you—this is Chicago at its best.

It was hot, but not too hot, and the breeze off the lake kept it perfect. The Cubs were… well, the Cubs. Slowly losing a game that could have been the start of an 8-game home streak. But the Air and Water Show was performing at the same time, so every few minutes a fighter jet screamed overhead, drowning out the 7th inning stretch with Hayden Christensen trying to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Sorry Anakin, but the F-16 won that duel.

Paul and I laughed about how great it is that in Chicago, this is just a Friday. We can see world-class baseball (loosely speaking), fighter jets, grab lunch, and still make it home for dinner. We started talking about how this is exactly why our families have all stayed in the city. We don’t live in Wheaton or Naperville or Schaumburg—we live in the city. And that still surprises people when we tell them.

Yes, Chicago has its problems—huge ones—but it also has something very special. My dad once stood with me at the John Hancock observatory, looked out at the skyline, and said, “These are my mountains.” That stuck. Chicago is alive in a way that feeds me. Even with all my type-A anxiety, the city gives me a sense of ease. Call it balance, call it rhythm—it’s my elixir.

Last week I went to Pierogi Fest with my daughters and a friend. We laughed, ate too much, and wandered for hours. Next week, My wife and l are using our Art Institute of Chicago passes. The point is—there’s always something here. Always a way to fill a day with color, sound, and all kinds of people. That’s not just entertainment—it’s medicine. My Medicine.

After the game (the Cubs are tanking hard, by the way), we walked back to the car. Rush hour had the streets packed, people spilling out of bars and patios, that last big summer weekend energy. Just as I was pulling into traffic, my wife and daughters called: “Let’s go for Chinese!”

So we did. And honestly, nothing’s better than ending a day like that with family, chopsticks, and a big table of shared dishes.

Chicago isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. It’s the backdrop of my marriage, my kids growing up, and my Greenland Shark adventures. It’s where I’m reminded that life is better when you don’t just watch from the sidelines—you walk the streets, sit in the seats, and eat the pierogis.