Selena Fragassi

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" I'm not quite sure what the kid walking in front of me is actually waiting for, because judging by the rotisserie-cooked sunbathers and boathouse eyesore that pumps out watered-down covers of John Mayer, I'm pretty sure that we've arrived at North Avenue Beach.

It's only 11am and already the beach has become a scene of Euro-gaudiness filled with scores of Michelangelo-sculpted players on the volleyball courts and brave spectators who are two-pulled-g-strings away from making Chicago's most popular stretch of lakefront a nude attraction. Today is summer's final appearance of the North Avenue Beach Ball™ competition and, like the temperature, the games are heating up.

The first player I meet sits in a rickety lawn chair on the far north side of the beach. His name is Art—a freckled, middle-aged veteran who waits on the sidelines wearing Ray Bans with a limp blond ponytail covered by a sky-blue bandana that matches the water in the distance. He proceeds to give me my first lesson about the sand courts—and not anything relating to two-on-two competition; rather, about the turf war brewing between north side volleyball players and the south side "hot shots.”

"You may want to stay on this side," he tells me cautiously, alluding to the horrors that await me in the forbidden land. "We're much friendlier. Over there," he continues, wagging his finger south towards the skyline, "are the snobs that only play to be seen."

I am nothing if not a risk-taker so I decide to proceed with my plan anyway and bid Art adieu. As I walk south along the barren land dotted with a mosaic of colorful swimsuits and beach towels, I notice that the Marines have landed and are embarking on a brutal bootcamp screaming at girls in bikinis who are crawling on their bare stomachs across the barracks. Art was right—this must mean war.

"This competition attracts the best players of the Midwest," one of the south side tournament organizers, an older fella that goes by the name “Mr. Volleyball,” tells me as he offers a chair in the shade of his tent that has become the central hubbub. No sooner than he gives me a pitch on his Sand Socks (a genius product that anyone who has danced over hot sand can appreciate) that his point is proven. Calling for a time-out, one player excuses himself to puke loudly into a garbage can, wipes his mouth, and runs back to his court just in time to spike a crushing blow to his opponents. In another game, a man interrupts the robotic rhythm of grunts and volleyballs hitting flesh to pull a Piniella, throwing his hands up in the air and screaming in the face of his teammate, "Are you fuckin’ kidding me? God, you're fuckin’ horrible!"

(2008-08-26)

Also by Selena Fragassi

Does Anybody Give a Crap?
If dogs are a man's best friend, then dog shit is undoubtedly Public Enemy No. 1, the worst of the repeat offenders lurking on the sidewalks of Chicago. All the official notices stapled to trees and discussions at ward meetings can't stop the random walk-bys because this ring is run by the most deadly of crime bosses: irresponsible dog owners
(2008-07-01)

Lights Out! (Understanding in a Power Outage)
On a late August night after two days without electricity I long for any sound besides whining sirens and an army of cicadas buried in the trenches outside my window that is propped open with a PBR for ventilation and any “in case of emergency” situations
(2008-05-20)

In the Fuld
Sam Fuld knows a thing or two about numbers. The Chicago Cubs prospect can probably still count the days that have passed since graduating with an economics degree from Stanford. It's a unique experience that no doubt prepared him to weigh the balance of batting averages and fielding percentages; but in a different world, Fuld may have called his plays in front of a blackboard instead
(2008-03-18)

about Newcitychicago | about Newcity magazine | advertising | privacy policy | FAQ | employment