Birthday Memories: Eureka College, Baseball and Greek Town, Part Two

As it turned out, several of my classmates who were staying in Eureka for the summer decided to join in my birthday celebration. We left early enough to make the drive into Chicago, find a place to park, and walk to the entrance of Wrigley Field, where Kevin was already waiting for us with our tickets.

I have attended several Cubs games over the years, but there was something special about spending my twenty-eighth birthday sitting in the centerfield bleachers at Wrigley. Even before the first pitch, the place felt magical. The smell of hot dogs drifted through the stands. Vendors shouted over one another. Fans in blue caps packed the bleachers while the ivy-covered walls beyond the outfield reminded everyone that Wrigley was unlike any other ballpark in America.

The Cubs were playing the Reds that afternoon, and there was an added sense of history in the air because Pete Rose was in the lineup. Rose was already forty-five years old and nearing the end of his remarkable career. We didn't know it at the time, but we were watching one of the last chapters of a baseball legend.

One of the reasons I always enjoyed going to games with Kevin was that he never simply watched baseball. He participated in it. Every pitch mattered. Every managerial decision required commentary. Every opposing player who made a mistake could expect to hear about it from somewhere in the centerfield bleachers.

At one point Reds outfielder Eddie Milner tried to score on a hard-hit single by Rose and was thrown out at home plate. When the inning ended and Milner jogged back out to centerfield, Kevin immediately offered his expert analysis of Milner's baserunning from several hundred feet away.

Apparently, Milner heard him.

At least, that's how Kevin interpreted the gesture Milner directed toward the bleachers a few moments later.

Later that summer—and the following one—Kevin, his brother Luke, and I would make several trips to see the Peoria Chiefs play. Looking back now, it is amazing to realize we were watching future major leaguers such as Mark Grace, Joe Girardi, and Rafael Palmeiro before they became household names.

The Cubs rewarded our loyalty that afternoon by beating the Reds. As birthdays go, things were proceeding quite nicely.

After the game, if memory serves me correctly, we stopped at a punk and New Wave record store near the Metro, the famous music venue just north of Wrigley Field. Whether this happened on my birthday or later that summer, I honestly cannot say with complete certainty anymore. Memory has a way of shuffling events together after forty years.

What I do remember is walking into the store and immediately recognizing the woman behind the counter.

I knew her from my days at Southern Illinois University. I had dated her roommate Christine for a while, and the previous year I had unexpectedly run into her at a Cure concert in Chicago.

That night had not gone particularly well for her.

Her boyfriend had abandoned her at the concert. She was stranded in Chicago, had little money, no ride back to Carbondale, and looked completely defeated. Through a friend of a friend, I had managed to get hold of a backstage pass. Seeing how miserable she was, I handed it to her. I figured she needed a little good fortune more than I did.

Now here she was again.

We both laughed at the coincidence.

As we caught up on the past year, she told me something I never would have expected.

The backstage pass had changed everything.

Instead of spending the evening stranded and miserable, she ended up meeting members of the band. One thing led to another and she eventually spent several weeks traveling with them before returning to Chicago.

It sounded like something out of a movie.

"Thanks for that backstage pass," she told me. "You really saved me that night."

I remember smiling.

"I'm glad everything worked out for you."

Sometimes the smallest decisions end up having consequences you never anticipate.

From there, we headed to Greek Town.

Before coming to Eureka, Kevin had taught speech and theatre at a performing arts school in Chicago not far from the neighborhood. He knew the city well. For dinner, Kevin recommended Diana's, one of Greek Town's best-known restaurants.

How famous was it?

Judging from the autographed photographs of Anthony Quinn and various Greek celebrities displayed on the walls, it was famous enough.

For me, however, the attraction was much simpler.

It was my first real Greek meal.

My knowledge of Greek food was limited to gyros, but this was different. There were dishes I could barely pronounce, Roditis wine, plenty of ouzo, and enough food to feed a small village.

Most of all, there was Kevin.

What I have always admired about him is his enthusiasm for life. Kevin possessed the rare ability to make every gathering feel like a celebration. It was difficult to be in a bad mood when he was around.

That evening he was in his element.

At one point the waiter brought out an order of saganaki. After dousing the cheese with brandy, he set it ablaze. Flames shot upward while diners throughout the restaurant shouted "Opa!" and applauded.

Naturally, Kevin joined in with enough enthusiasm to make it sound as though he owned the place.

The flames seemed to leap halfway to the ceiling while everyone at our table laughed.

Looking back now, I realize that what I remember most about that birthday is not the Cubs victory, Pete Rose, or even the Greek food.

What I remember is friendship.

I remember being twenty-eight years old and feeling as though life was still opening before me. I remember classmates willing to spend an entire day celebrating a birthday. I remember Kevin's laughter echoing through a crowded restaurant. I remember a chance encounter in a record store with someone whose life had unexpectedly changed because of a simple act of kindness.

At the time, I assumed there would always be more days like that waiting somewhere ahead.

Life, of course, had other plans.

But every now and then, when I see an old photograph of Wrigley Field, hear a song by The Cure, or catch the smell of a ballpark hot dog, I find myself back in Chicago in May of 1986. Pete Rose is still in the lineup. Kevin is still shouting advice to Reds outfielders from the centerfield bleachers. The flames from the saganaki are still leaping toward the ceiling at Diana's. And for a little while, the future once again stretches endlessly before me.