The other night we attended a candlelight vigil for The Boy’s friend who died. The boy’s family requested that friends wear something that shows each person’s connection with their son. I thought it was a super cool way to see the different interconnections between people.

The Boy and his friend had gone to school together, played on many of the same teams, were part of the same Adventure Guides tribe, belonged to the same Boy Scout troop, and more. So, The Boy’s choices were abundant & we let him pick. He decided on a jersey from the most recent baseball team they shared, The Cubs. He wore his Cubs jersey, I wore my coach’s shirt. The wife wore a t-shirt she had gotten to show her support. We were decked out in Cubs gear.

Before the vigil, we decided to hit our local Chili’s for some dinner. We get seated, our waiter swings by and casually says, “So, you’re from Chicago eh?” We all look at each other funny and then in unison tell him no. He follows with, “Then why are you Cubs fans?” I explain that it was for my son’s baseball team. He says, “Thank goodness! I’m from Chicago, but I’m a White Sox fan. If you were really Cubs fans, I’d have to spit in your food.” Um, needless to say we were extremely cautious about our order, getting only drinks and sticking with the chips another server brought to our table while our waiter was still grilling us about our Cubs gear. We ended up eating at another restaurant nearby that wasn’t quite so concerned with our choice of attire.

Throughout the remaining time of our visit, he continued to ask us about our Cubs gear. He wanted to know if my son had a game that day, how the team was doing, what position my son played. Things got super complicated when my son blurted out that he didn’t play anymore.

Of course that triggered a whole new line of questions from our new South Side best friend. I finally explained that we were wearing the Cubs apparel to a candlelight vigil for The Boy’s best friend and that they were teammates. At that point I used the Ziosk to pay for our hopefully non-spit in chips and drinks and left the waiter standing there with his foot firmly ensconced in his mouth.

South Side, North Side, don’t care! Go Rangers!

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