It is early on a Monday morning, and I’m
sitting on the balcony. The wind is blowing gently across the tops of the
trees. The leaves are beginning to sound arthritic in the late-summer breeze.
The lions are roaring from their den at
Brookfield Zoo, across the Des Plaines River.
The week has started off with a vomiting
child and an overnight trading error that needed to be covered.
My mom always told me that when a child
lies down and says their belly hurts, be prepared for vomit at some point. Last
night, my mom nudged me just before I heard the unmistakable sound of a child
getting ready to throw up.
Her soft voice came down from heaven:
“Maybe you should put a bucket next to
Hazel’s bed.”
As for the error…
One of my first bosses, Larry Dorf, told me
that when a broker has an error, get out immediately. A broker is not a trader.
Cut your losses and move along.
So August has begun with a debit and a pile
of partially digested hot dogs.
The
White Sox are sitting right around .500, and the Cubs are back where they are
supposed to be.
The best year of Chicago baseball during my
childhood was 1977.
On August 1, 1977, the South Side Hitmen were
62–39. The Cubbies were 61–42.
Both
teams were in first place. Then they both shit the bed in August and September
and finished in third.
I’m in first place right now and I don’t
plan on finishing in third.
Let’s have a great August you Chalkheads…
