There was a little sports shop tucked next to the El tracks by Wrigley Field. Just about every time I went to a Cubs game in the mid to late nineties, I would wander in there before heading home and buy a bobblehead.
They had a great selection, and they were probably ten bucks back then. Most of the time I was zipped up on a dozen Old Styles, give or take, so the purchase felt necessary, almost ceremonial.
Then I would catch the Howard line down going south into the Loop, transfer to the Congress, and head west out to Oak Park.
That stretch of steel and windows rattling through the city was time I had alone. Well, not exactly alone. I had my new bobblehead riding shotgun in a paper bag. I didn’t have a care in the world back then. Though, truth be told, I was still worrying about something.
It was the height of the nineties and the reckless Clinton years. The pits were full of traders and open outcry was roaring. The market opened at 7:20 in the morning and shut down at 2:00, period. When the bell rang, the day was done. Baseball was played in the afternoon and you used tokens on the CTA, not apps. Life had edges, but it also had more room.
Over time I built a decent collection of bobbles. When it was all said and done, I had fifteen to twenty. I still have the Houston Oilers and the Cleveland Indians. The rest disappeared somewhere along the way after I got married. Mostly after my bride asked why they were lined up on the dresser in our bedroom. Turns out I didn’t live in a bachelor pad anymore.
Back then, I had a lot of time alone. Just me and my bobbleheads. Hard work, softball games, cold beer, afternoon baseball and Sunday papers that were still thick with news. The world felt loud, but manageable.
The end of the world never came with Y2K....
...And I feel fine.
