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 Mama Gina gives son Eric a wet one |
Mom does the town with
a carful of young sailors
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
|
My mother always warned me about kissing sailors. She
said that no matter how irresistible they were, I had to be careful
or I’d end up with a broken heart. So imagine if she could
see me now, with a car full of sailors, speeding toward Chicago
and their very first liberty.
At the end of the ceremony came the announcement every sailor dreamed of through nine long weeks of boot camp: Liberty would commence immediately. With Chicago only 40 minutes away, these kids were finally free to explore the city as newly minted military men. The 850 shouts of triumph, relief and excitement that followed were enough to shake the rafters. When all the hugs, kisses and picture-taking subsided, my own sailor was anxious to leave. Before shipping out to Monterey and his assignment in Naval Intelligence, this would be our last time together in our home town. On the way to the car, he introduced some of his friends, boys whose families hadn’t made it to the graduation. Some were from towns with populations smaller than their Navy class. One boy, Che, enlisted after his arrival from China to guarantee his U.S. citizenship. They were so nervous about visiting a big city, they’d decided on a default plan of hanging out at a shopping mall near the base. Not exactly exciting, but at least they’d get a junk food fix, and maybe some cute girls to scope out.
My son offered an alternate plan. “You guys should come with us,” he said. “My mother knows Chicago inside out and can give you a great tour. She used to be a cop, y’know.” And to me, “You don’t mind, do you, Mom?” Mind? Is he kidding? Who can resist a sailor? Which is why I'm now racing toward the Windy City with a car full of fresh-faced swabbies. Five pairs of eyes are riveted on the skyline, the land marks, and every young female that passes their field of vision. But after weeks of Navy chow, the first order of business is some non-military cuisine. I ask if anyone has a food preference. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, ma’am, could we stop at a drugstore?” asks the boy from Alabama. “I’d like to buy a Snickers bar. We haven’t had any candy in nine weeks.” The request is so wistful--and so achingly young--my heart turns over. We start with pizza first, the best Chicago has to offer. As if five new sailors in dress whites don’t make enough of an entrance, I go in for the overkill. And announce to the customers, the restaurant staff and anyone who’ll listen that we’ve got new graduates here, their first liberty away from Great Lakes, and these boys are hungry. Within moments, our table is filled with platters of food--huge squares of pizza in a dozen different varieties, all compliments of the management.
“You young men are doing a great thing,” the owner tells them, setting down another heaping plate. “It takes a special kind of person to defend his country.” My sailors are astonished by the amount of food, dazed that it keeps on coming. And settle down in absolute silence to work their way through it all, eyes drifting nearly shut at the sheer pleasure of a good meal. Several platters later, they can barely waddle back to the car. We’re just blocks away from Wrigleyville, where vendors are set up hawking Cubs souvenirs for tonight’s game. After 95 years, the north side team has finally made the play-offs, and the entire city is celebrating. Traffic near Wrigley Field is blocked off for a quarter mile in every direction while throngs of happy revelers party in the streets. “All this for a baseball team?” asks one of my sailors. “You’d think they were rock stars!” We explain that Chicago is a sports town that takes its teams very seriously. Something they’ll have a chance to witness again during the following day’s liberty when we go to Soldier Field while the Bears win. For now, I walk them through the crowd, let them explore Wrigley Field, and finesse a few souvenir t-shirts. “Brand new sailors,” I tell the vendor. “You wanna show them your gratitude for defending our country, right?” He obliges with their choice of shirt designs. One sailor selects the popular “ANY team can have a bad century!” Another chooses an official Cubs logo shirt, while the Alabama boy opts for the racier, “Chicks Dig the Long Ball.” After more picture-taking, more congratulations and cheers from the crowd, we’re back in the car, headed for the next stop. We hit all the tourist spots, everything they’ve read about: Sears Tower, Buckingham Fountain, Lake Shore Drive and Navy Pier. I take them to the United Center for some photos with Michael Jordan’s statue, followed by a specially arranged tour of the stadium and locker rooms.
For a change of pace, we visit the University of Chicago, the Planetarium and the boat rides in Lincoln Park. Cruising past Daley Center Plaza, the sailors agree that the Picasso is the weirdest sculpture they’ve ever seen. When one mentions an interest in gangster history, I give them my unofficial underworld tour. We stop by the site of the St. Valentine’s Massacre and the Biograph Theater where John Dillinger was gunned down. I show them the bullet holes that still pock mark Holy Name Cathedral’s front wall, courtesy of past mob executions. Passing Al Capone’s burial site, the sailors are impressed. But when we approach Printer’s Row, former headquarters of the Untouchables I know I’ve gone too far. “Untouchables?” asks one. “Is that like Kevin Costner and Sean Connery?” Maybe it’s time to hit some spots they can relate to more easily. We head for Rush Street and cruise by the clubs. Visit the original House of Blues, the Rock ‘n' Roll McDonald’s, and the restaurants of Mike Ditka, Chris Chelios and Harry Carey, respectively. Sports towns pay homage to sports legends. At Navy Pier, I make myself scarce so they can strut along the mile-long promenade, enjoying the glorious day and, of course, the girls. Since this is also the weekend of the Tall Ships Festival, they pose for still more pictures. Solemn-faced and military, they stand erect and proud with a spectacular background of ships and skyscrapers. But just beneath that stern demeanor, there’s still that wonder in their eyes, the kind that blesses the very young who are poised on the brink of new adventures. On this day, their world and their futures are stretched out ahead and anything seems possible. What seems impossible is that they can eat again, but they do, throughout the day and into the evening. As a Chicago native, I’m duty-bound to offer them the best of the local cuisine. So they’re stuffed with Chicago hot dogs, (“Omigod, this is so awesome!” Alabama groans), moon cakes from Chinatown, cornbread and jambalaya from the Soul Kitchen. “Dude!” groans one sailor to the others. “If they make us do P.T. when we get back to base, I’m so screwed!” While the others agree, Che withholds comment, mostly because his mouth is full. He’s never tasted cornbread before, and he’s not stopping until every crumb is gone. But there’s still more food coming--roast lamb from Greektown, coronary-sized burgers from the South Loop Club, Mexican barbecue from Little Village. After torpedo-sized beef sandwiches (served Chicago-style: au jus with hot peppers) they can barely move. But when we pull up outside the Italian bakery, they manage to rally. This is Ferrara’s, a legendary establishment where society people and neighborhood folks alike are counted as regular customers. Inside the bakery, an enlarged, framed half-page newspaper, dated 1946, features a photo of a Ferrara’s wedding cake shaped in an arch so large, the entire bridal processional marched through it. A concept that impresses my sailors, but not nearly as much as the mouth-watering display of pastries. We buy a huge box of them for their ride back to the base. “New sailors?” the proprietress smiles. “You boys gotta have something to keep you sweet. Here, take a couple pounds of these cookies for the road.” After eating and walking and laughing their way through 10 fast-paced hours in the Windy City, my sailors are exhausted. During the ride back to Great Lakes, conversation dwindles, ending finally in their soft snores. With their mouths lolling open, they look more like exhausted kids than military men, more sweet boys than trained warriors.
But in just a few days,
they’ll all ship out to different assignments. One boy will
join the fleet immediately on a sub off the coast of Japan. Alabama
will be trained in nuclear arms, someone else as a diver, and
another is headed for further training in air assault weaponry.
All of them are our newest instruments in the art of war and
currency in the price of freedom. |
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