If you don’t believe in magic, you’ve clearly never been to my city.
It’s 12:40am and my entire apartment building is filled with the tumult of excited Cubs fans, singing “Go Cubs Go” and simply adding theirs to the jumble of voices ringing out across Chicago. Tonight, the Cubs have won the World Series for the first time in 108 years. There will be no more “next time” or “maybe next year”, as proven by the excessive honking of cars whizzing by and everyone out on their balconies at an ungodly hour of the night. I deduce that I will most definitely not be getting any sleep tonight, and search for the sources of all the noise.
The scene reminds me of 2010 when the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup for the first time in 49 years. I, however, remember it in the peaceful oasis of northern suburbia. Our house was filled with screams when Patrick Kane scored the winning goal against the Philadelphia Flyers, and I remember tears of joy and my family all gathered together in my tiny living room, experiencing the magic for the first time.
Chicago is a special city; the heart and soul of every Chicago sports fan are what keeps the city on its toes. The crucial last moments of the 2010 Stanley Cup Championship, the last out in that World Series game 7, and more glorious moments to come in the future are what we will remember year after year. I will probably carry my first born out of the hospital in a Blackhawks jersey (sorry Ma, pink and blue blankets just aren’t the Chicago way).
I was born in this city, raised in the suburbs but never quite with a disconnect from it; even 45 minutes away, the magic engulfed me in ways I cannot describe. It’s the first time I went to a Hawks game in St. Louis and watched them lose and Brent Sopel take a puck to the face; or when I went to the Blackhawks convention in 2010 and drooled over Jordan Hendry while he did a photo shoot, or watching Patrick Kane speak in a press conference and having to keep myself calm so as not to run up there and hug my hero. It’s not pixie dust - it’s the “Chicago effect”.
I listen to Chance The Rapper while doing homework, fight people tirelessly over whether Giordano’s is better than Lou’s (I’ll leave my answer to your imagination), freak out a little whenever I hear Kanye refer to Chicago in “Homecoming”, stand by my team no matter what, and hang a Chicago flag on my bedroom wall. My heart belongs to this city, and true Chicagoans never turn their back on their roots.
Gathered outside Wrigley Field were loyal Cubs fans and curious onlookers, among them a man with a goat on a leash and a group of “hype men” trying to coerce the entire crowd into singing the Cubs song. Bottom of the 6th, the score was 6-3, and the excitement was tangible in the air. I had never been to Wrigleyville before, and my only comparison was the United Center. Let me tell you, Chicago knows how to celebrate.
No matter what part of the city people were from, or what age - I’m 99% sure I saw a 3-day old infant, and her first memory of life was a historic World Series win, which I am already jealous of - they were all there to support their team and their city. And when the Cubs won long after I had already retreated to my apartment, the magic proliferated through my bedroom walls. Screams in every room in the building; lights on in every window in the building across from mine; people pouring out into the streets, music being played, cars honking. I didn’t sleep last night, and that’s okay - nobody within 10 miles of my house could sleep after the Hawks won with all of our racket.
I am forever proud of this city. Our city, the one destroyed by fire yet the one that kept the flames as a souvenir. I hope I never see silence, and I hope I never watch that inferno die. This Cubs win only solidifies what Chicago sports fans already knew: there’s an obvious enchantment that comes with this city, and it is ours to spread.
