DanMargarita.com

I had the opportunity to revisit my favorite city this past weekend, but under very special circumstances. I was accompanying my father, Bob Margarita, to the Chicago Bears Homecoming Weekend. They have one every year, and this marks the 60th anniversary on the 1946 team that won the NFL Championship and were marking the occasion with Dad and some of his former teammates.

The best way to get to Chicago, in my opinion, is by flying out of Manchester Airport which is a joy as far as airports go. Security at any airport is always a nightmare, however. With an arthritic 85-year-old, I found it best to use a wheelchair to speed up the trip through the airport. It’s the first time I’ve flown since liquids have been banned from flights and after my bag goes through screening, they pull out some old hotel shampoo bottles and a travel size can of shaving cream. and tell these should've been "declared" before I went through security. They also take issue with my father’s inhalers and tell me that technically, I’m supposed to go through security again and have my bag re-screened and act as though they’re letting me get away with something. Then I’m told to take my sneakers off as well as my father’s. They ask him if he can walk and he indicates that he can with some assistance, so he stands up and they give him a wooden cane and make him walk through the metal detector. In his socks, he navigates through, trying to avoid hitting the sides of the machine and on his second try succeeds, despite my fear that he’ll slip and fall. I know that security must be tight, but an 85-year-old doesn’t seem too much of a threat and I’m pretty angry about this. Yet, I keep quiet because if I gripe, I know that in two hours I’ll be sitting in shackles in Gitmo. After he finishes and gets back in his wheelchair, a Transportation Security Administration (TSA) woman suggests to me that next time he should be wheeled through and just have a “pat-down” which is what I was assuming was going to be done anyway. The most angry but controlled response I can come up with is “It wasn’t my call” in a terse manner.

Arriving in Chicago, we take a cab to the Hilton on S. Michigan Ave. and if there’s one thing all cities in America have in common, it’s the death-defying, James Bond car-chase, cab ride. Ironically, the Hilton is right next to the Essex where I stayed last year to see the Red Sox play the Cubs and is more in my price range then the Hilton would normally be. The Hilton may be one block north of the Essex, but it’s miles north in its level of comfort. A five-star hotel, it is also hosting the American College of Surgeons, whom I’m guessing doesn’t have much of a football team but recovers from their injuries pretty quickly.

Saturday night a dinner was held, preceeded by a reception in a room that featured a beautiful view of Lake Michigan and when it got dark, the lights of the city to our left. Guests began arriving at 6:00 p.m. and many of them are older guys, who were pretty large in their day, but would be small by the game’s current standards. Some of the guys are still pretty big, especially the younger ones. I introduce myself to George Blanda, whom many remember as the aging place-kicker for the Oakland Raiders, unaware that he started out as a quarterback for the Bears. I tell him that as a child, his was the first autograph that I ever got. I told him that I then sent for Detroit Tiger Willie Horton’s but the slugger never returned my bubble gum card signed or unsigned, thus discouraging me from ever sending for another autograph from anyone. That was about the time that Mr. Blanda thought it was a good time to get up and go mingle with other people. Two other members of the ‘46 Bears arrive, Ed Sprinkle and Jim Keane. Along with my father, there are six of them left but three of them were unable to attend. One can almost hear the sounds of bone-on-bone arthritis in the room. As one former player would note the next day, “I used to be able to run the 100 yard-dash in eleven/five (seconds) and now I can’t even walk the distance.”

Dinner followed in a ballroom downstairs. Brian McCaskey of the Bears kept his promise of keeping his speech to a minimum, but a presentation was made to the ‘46 Bears players. All were given a framed photo of the team, accompanied by a posed photo of each player. Kara Smith, an attractive young woman that handles alumni relations, said she would have our photo shipped, which I tell her was a good idea since I couldn’t get a travel-sized can of shaving cream on a plane, much less breakable glass. Then each player was presented with a beautiful dark leather jacket that had the orange Chicago Bears “C” embroidered on the left breast.

After the meal, former players and relatives of players got to mingle, with new friends being made and memories being shared. Sons, daughters, nieces and nephews heard stories of their fathers that perhaps they had not known. There was a tremendous sense of family in a manner that a new team, such as the Carolina Panthers, simply don’t know and couldn’t possibly know for decades.

On Sunday, two buses take all the alums and kin to Soldier Field, which was renovated a few years ago. The old Roman Colosseum-style columns remain on the outside, but inside is a space-age type of facility, making it look like The Jetson’s landed in Ancient Rome. Some of the alumni go onto the field before the game, but it seems too time-consuming and perhaps dangerous to the turf to attempt with Dad's wheelchair, though I had joked to my brother that I would emulate John Henry Williams, the late son of the late Ted Williams who had his dad wear a “hitters.net” cap when he was driven onto the Fenway Park field before the 1999 All-Star Game. I told my brother I would wheel my father out wearing a “danmargarita.com” baseball cap. We are led to a suite that holds about 25 people, with no obstructed views. It’s all encased in glass so nothing is missed at either end of the field. Free food is plentiful and many choices of cuisine are available. The ‘fridge is stocked with juice, soda, beer and wine. Then a dessert cart comes around which I gladly sample. I can understand why Ken Lay and his ilk unscrupulously pursue money. I don’t condone or admire it, but I can understand it. The high life is pretty sweet.

Oh yeah, there was a football game. The undefeated Bears roll over the Buffalo Bills 40-7 which only adds to the sense of fun. After the game we take the bus back to the hotel to wrap up the weekend.

Flying back from Midway Airport, a TSA security woman notes my father’s temporary ID and pulls us aside for an extra security check. My father, Osama bin Margarita seems to have put a scare into the TSA again. We go through a separate security line. While he is being patted down, I am asked to step into a glass booth and hold my hands out. I’m not sure if this is the one that allows people to see you naked, but I suppose if you’ve got it, flaunt it. A puff of air blows on me for about 17 seconds. Whatever it did, it didn’t catch me doing anything, and we proceed to the gate. Still, it’s not enough to spoil our weekend which was a first-class affair thanks to the Bears and the McCaskey family.

Now if I can just get dad’s name off of that terrorist “watch” list.