The evening started out innocently enough. My friend Beth had scored two tickets to a Cubs game for that blustery Monday evening and haggled me into going with her. Now, I am never one to turn down a Cubs game because Wrigley is my personal happy place, but I had just been dumped a mere 24 hours earlier and was in no mood to sprint from school, catch the train, put up with the smell for the 47 minute ride only to get off the train, run to grab the red line, and hang on for dear life while the guy behind me cops a feel. On days like that, you breathe a collective sigh of relief when the automated train guy drones "Addison is next." At this point, all you want is a beer and your seat. On this particular day, I succumbed to Beth's pleas and we ran the gamut of what we fondly refer to as "Operation: Get to Wrigley."
Upon reaching the field, Beth and I immediately ordered drinks. It was freezing out, as most late April games are, so we figured that the more we drank the warmer we would get. As we downed beer after beer and the game grew longer and colder, we talked about life and relationships. Beth was on top of the world because she had met a guy in Meijer the night before whom she picked up by telling him that he looked like Mark Prior. Little did we know that four years later, Mr. "Looks Like Mark Prior" would become her husband. I remember thinking how random it is the way people come in and out of our lives. For Beth, she went to the store to find frozen pizza or toilet paper or ice cream and came back with a husband. Every time I go to Meijer I end up with grocery store rage, a belly full of sample foods that I don't want to eat, and magazines that I shouldn't have spent the money on because you can read all of it online for free.
In about the eighth inning, the Cubs were losing. We were tipsy and freezing, so we decided to leave the Friendly Confines for a place a little warmer where the beer was still cold. As we made our way through the stadium, we started to figure out how we would perform the reverse commute home via the South Shore. For any of you familiar with the South Shore Train Line, the longer you stay downtown the less frequently the train comes. By this time, we were looking at a train that left in 60 minutes or one that left 2 1/2 hours later. Though our brains were frozen, we tried to eek out some logic and decided that we could go to Hi-Topps, warm up and have a drink, then start the long, cold journey home. We exited the field and rounded the corner to head to Hi-Topps. To this day, Beth still swears the following took place and although I will not deny it, I also cannot totally confirm it. There is a homeless man that sits in a wheelchair on that side of the stadium and he has no legs. He asks for handouts and usually has a bag of peanuts with him. As we passed this nice man just trying to make a living, he asked us if we could spare any change. Beth started to talk to him and, as she did so, I thought that it would be OK to take his peanuts. I don't have any recollection of this happening, but I did arrive at Hi-Topps with a bag of peanuts in hand. To this day I still see that same man outside of Wrigley and feel like the scum of the Earth for taking his peanuts. Beth brings it up every chance she gets and, who can blame her? I would do the exact. Same. Thing.
When Beth, my newly found peanuts, and I arrived at Hi-Topps we were two of about ten people in there. We had never been to Hi-Topps and were expecting to find some hip, bumpin' joint with lots of cute guys and some good music. Instead, we walked in the door and the bartenders stood bored behind the bar, perking with interest as we arrived. The TVs were blaring with a half dozen different sporting events, and there was a lone table of men in the corner. We stood in the doorway contemplating the scene when Beth took notice to a younger guy standing in the corner talking to the table of dudes we had previously noted. Beth looked at me and said, "That guy's cute" to which I looked him up and down and answered "He looks like a worker." Like, in total disdain. Similar to the way you would say "Oh, you're going to wear that out tonight?" or "She really just went home with him?" What in the holy heck does that mean? The guy was very attractive but was wearing a pair of jeans or tear-away pants (I can't remember which), old looking tennis shoes, and a CAT sweatshirt. This does not a worker make, but my emotional scarring from the previous night's events coupled with the alcohol consumption seemed to have skewed my sense of tactfulness. Regardless of my evaluation and the seemingly dead appearance of Hi-Topps, Beth and I decided to stay.
We made our way over to one of the many empty tables and as we sat down, the waitress immediately brought over two bottles of Miller Lite compliments of the gentlemen in the corner. Beth and I looked at each other and our internal monologue went something like this:
Me: Score, free booze!
Beth: No doubt, good thing because we're broke
Me: Do you think we need to go talk to them to say thanks?
Beth: Nope, let them come to us, we didn't ask for these beers
Me: You're totally right, we should just drink them and not ask any questions. Do you think there are roofies involved?
This conversation took place between the two of us with just a couple of looks and, girls, you know that this conversation happens in some way, shape, or form every time some seemingly random guys buy you and your friend(s) a drink. As we sipped, chatted, and continued to watch the game on TV, the table of guys moved closer to us until it was time to start up the obligatory conversation. You know how that is- you are at a bar, some guys buy you a drink, and then you have to make small talk for ten or fifteen minutes to see if it's worth your time and you can get another drink out of it or if it's time to hightail it to the bathroom, climb out the window, and truck it to the train station before they know you're gone.
Beth and I started to converse with the guys and found out that they were extremely cool. All but "the worker" had gone to college together and, small world, the one guy named Jim (who would later turn out to be the great Coach Martin whom I love dearly) actually graduated from Beth's high school. These guys were able to get together every so often and had roped "the worker", my future husband John, into coming with them. As the time passed, John and I sat down together and started conversing. In great John Terry style, he informed me that he was dressed like a bum today and that his normal pimptacular clothes were at home. You see, he had just returned from Miami and had been coerced into coming to the game under the premise that he wouldn't have to pay for anything. I didn't really know what to make of him at first and was not really in the mindset to be future-husband fishing.
As we continued to talk, Beth and I missed the second to last train of the evening and were resigned (quite happily) to staying for another hour and a half before having to leave. In the course of that conversation, I found out that John was a teacher, that his family lived in Hammond which was just ten minutes from where I was currently living, and that he correctly identified my shoes as "ballet flats." Questionable. He also informed me that he was the Cubs', Miami Heat's, and Shaq's biggest fan in the whole wide world. He asked me if I was a Miami Heat fan and to that I responded, "Sure." It's not that I'm not a fan, it's just that I could care less about the Miami Heat than I could about flying squirrels or how toilet paper is made. He must have taken that as his in, because he casually mentioned that he was going to be in Schererville on Thursday that week to catch the playoff game with his friend and wanted to know if I wanted to meet them there. I responded just as casually that I would, not thinking anything of it. He left soon after and Beth and I made the long, even more tipsy trek back home to Northwest Indiana- Beth knowing that she had put my number in John's phone, me knowing that there was no way I would be going to school the next day.
As morning dawned, it was even more apparent that I would not be going to work. The combination of emotional upheaval and Hi-Topps fun had taken a toll on me and I planned on staying in bed the whole day. The phone rang for the first time at a little after 9:30 and my best friend and future roommate Betty was on the other end. She was calling to inquire about my emotional state and to see if I needed anything. I told her that I appreciated the thought and that I was fine. I would call her later that day. After hanging up, I went directly back to bed.
At a little past three, the phone rang again and, again ,it was Betty. Her call had taken on a much different purpose since the morning because her voice had changed from concern to excitement. That conversation went something like this:
Betty: "You didn't tell me that you met a GUY last night! Beth just told me all about it!"
Me: "Huh? What? I did? Oh, wait, yeah, I guess I did."
Betty: "What was his name?"
Me: "John? I think?"
Betty: "Was it John TERRY?"
Me: "Uh, yeah, the guy with two first names, yeah, that was it. He asked me to go out with him."
Betty: "THAT WAS MY FREAKING PRE-CAL TEACHER MR. TERRY!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MET MR. TERRY AT A BAR AND YOU ARE GOING TO GO OUT ON A DATE WITH HIM!"
Me: "This is too much to process- I gotta go"
...or something like that. The fact that John was Betty's former teacher was just too much to take in at that point. Little did I know that the next few days would end my dating days forever and take me on to a whole new chapter of my life full of adventure and the promise of new experiences, new friends, and new beginnings.
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