Neal Pollack

She squirmed out of Bobby Kagan’s hold and then pulled down the garage door. I dropped my bat and ran down the alley.

All night, I just sat on the front stoop with a rubber ball, bouncing it up and down, waiting for a police car to drive by with its flashers on and its siren off. At dawn, I heard Bobby Kagan’s Cadillac rumble away down the alley, then the sound of the back door to the house open and shut. In the morning, I was still there as my mother walked down the steps. She was dressed for work and there were two Crawford’s bags in her hand.

“I know,” I told her, “I didn'’t see a thing.”

I kept waiting for Mr. Klein to appear on his porch. I wondered what he’d seen and what he knew. But his shades were down, and Mr. Klein didn'’t come out all day.

THE OLDEST RIVALRY

BY JIM ARNDORFER

I-94, Lake Forest Oasis

The Illinois border burned orange under the falling sun. The rays singed the scrub and trees along the freeway and tempered the big rigs turning on Highway 41. The whitewashed barn demanding, in tall pain'ted letters, that motorists “Vote Republican ” was completely engulfed. A joke popped into my head.

I looked in the rearview mirror. Andy was orange, too, except for a yellowish spot on his chest. That was the light from the television he wasn'’t watching as he looked out the window. The way he had been since we left Green Bay. He’d been silent, except for when he slurped his soda or crunched on some chips. Neck curving against the headrest, he struck the image of adolescent ennui.

“Hey, looks like God’s a Bears fan, too, huh?” I said.

His face crinkled, as if he were searching for something interesting in the plowed fields. He locked his eyes on mine in the mirror. He waited.

“The sun, it’s making everything orange. You know, the Bears’ color. Look around.”

He looked back out the window, supremely unamused. Not that I could blame him. It’s a long way from Green Bay to Chicago, even longer when the Bears smack the Packers around. I knew it was going to be bad when Gary Berry was laid out for five minutes on the opening kickoff. And it was. Favre’s first pass picked off. Marcus Robinson looking like Randy Moss. Cade McNown—Cade McNown!—looking like Dan Fouts. That boneheaded onside kick. We had listened to the blow-by-humiliating-blow recap on AM 620 until I heard Coach Sherman credit his team for almost coming back.

“You don’t brag about almost coming back against the Bears! At home!” I turned off the radio. “Sorry.” Andy hadn'’t said anything.

Less than fifteen hours from walking into the office. I could already see the wannabe-hip systems guy grinning at me through his wispy Fu Manchu. “Too bad about your Packers,” he’d say, to which I would respond: “Yeah, I guess it wasn'’t our day.”

All this from a putz who couldn'’t name the Bears’ starting O-line.

Andy wouldn'’t get off as easy, I knew. He was only seven when we moved to Wilmette from Milwaukee five years ago, but he still bled green and gold, as they say on AM 620. That was my one accomplishment as a parent, I told my neighbor John Doolin. He laughed, but I hadn'’t been completely joking. I worked at it. I bought a dish so we could watch games together. I'’d tape the game if I got stuck with clients in the corporate box at Soldier, and we’d watch it later. I'’d call him from my hotel room when I was on the road and he’d give me the highlights. Andy’d put up with a lot of crap on the playground over the years for staying faithful. Last year had been the worst, after Walter Payton’s ghost blocked the Packers’ last-second field goal attempt and delivered the Bears a victory at Lambeau.

Andy still confided in me back then, so he told me what the kids said. “Cheesehead” became “Cheesedick.” “Packers suck and Favre swallows.” “Favre’s a bigger pussy than you are.”

That one hurt Andy the most. And they knew it. Skinny and small as he was, Andy wanted to play football. He didn'’t because we wouldn'’t let him. It killed him. “I want to!” His eyes would be red and wet. I always gave the same answer: “You’re not big enough.” “You played and you were shorter than I am.” Swallowing my first response, “This one ain’t my call,” I'’d point out my glorious career as a junior high receiver ended after racking up zero receptions and two concussions in two games. I thought Andy had good speed for a corner, but it wasn'’t a fight worth having.

“Well, we’re back in Illinois now. Better get ready for all the shit we’re going to have to take, huh?”