But nothing - really, nothing - could have prepared my jaded sniffer for the glory of game day at Soldier Field. Still more than a long Hail Mary from the stadium, the nearby streets smell of charcoaled and grilled meat, while a pocket of smoke travels through opened windows and beckons Sunday sleepers awake. It's an unexpected treat at this time of year, but the smells of summer come back like a Fourth of July firecracker found in a kitchen drawer. Grills smoldering, Bears fans gather on street corners a quarter-mile from the stadium and huddle around Fisher Price-style plastic picnic tables. But little Jimmy won't be selling nickel lemonade on this day. Instead, the popping tops of chilled beer ring out, while the echoes of the stadium's pa system reverberate down the streets housing the area's newly renovated loft condominiums.
Bear down, Chicago Bears!
Along the short hike to the stadium, neighborhood tailgating parties are ubiquitous. Burly men, garbed in blue-and-orange Bear wear, woof-woof-woof it up, hoisting forty-ounce malt-liquor bottles to the sky. If you didn't know better, you'd think Chris Farley was alive and well and hanging out on the corner of 16th and Indiana. An examination of the parking lot powwow yields predictable, yet mouth-watering fare. Thick, heavy char-burgers sizzle atop cheapo hibachi grills. Brats curl and darken from the intense heat of fire-gray coals. A grizzled man decked out in a Gale Sayers jersey shovels German-style potato salad straight from the plastic container into his mouth. "Bears are gonna win today!" he says with indefatigable optimism.
Yeah, anything you say.
The tailgate party is a decidedly football-themed affair that just doesn't seem to work for a baseball or basketball game. The barbarian nature of the gridiron lends itself quite nicely to whiskered men loitering in arena parking lots, pounding beers and gnawing on turkey legs. Just after sun-up, die-hards start to appear outside the stadium. The gate on the back of the wagon, or the mini-van or the truck, is dropped, and a pre-game picnic ensues. Card tables (several blanketed in red-and-white checkerboard cloths - one even has a vase with flowers) are loaded with bags of chips, gleaming jars of crunchy dill pickles and pyramids of burgers stacked on paper plates. This is the anti-Ravinia picnic.
A trek across the 18th Street bridge, the stadium now in clear view, shows the asphalt expanse already jam-packed some two-and-a-half hours prior to kickoff. Wispy plumes of smoke rise in rows like natural vents from a hot spring. Entering the lot to the south of the stadium, the nose is treated to an irresistible array of appetite-inducing smells. The unmistakable scent of barbecuing meat owns this crisp, autumn morning.
"The Bears kick ass!" bellows a troglodyte of a man who made the trip in from Dekalb along with three of his pals. A big jug of Smirnoff Vodka, three-quarters empty, waits on the tailgate of their hunter green mini-van. A cursory census comes up with predictable demographics on this golden-hued October day: the male members of the species rule here. Sure, there are a few women to cheer on the most abysmal team in the NFL, but mostly it's guys. Drunk guys. Loud guys.
Carnivorous guys.
"Want a hot dog?" asks one such guy, spearing a weenie with a plastic fork. "Bears are gonna win today!"
There's that crazy, utterly unfounded optimism again.
Another group of men guzzles Budweisers as some very dead-looking burgers sizzle away on a grill; a bag of fat-free potato chips sits conspicuously on the beer cooler. What's this? Bears fans worrying about calories?
"More room for beer!" says a sheepish Steve Stack of Elgin. Doesn't he know that Olestra, that new-fangled fat substitute, "may result in loose stools"? (It says so right there on the bag.) "Beer does the same thing," reports one of Stack's pals.
A walk down the rows of automobiles finds sizzling steaks, jumbo shrimp, brats, brats and more brats, and some mighty fine roasted bell peppers. Along with the breakfast of champions - beer - Bloody Marys seem to be a popular early-morning concoction. Mr. Tom's Bloody mix, more than a splash of vodka, Tabasco, black pepper, seasoning salts, a generous dollop of horseradish and a crunchy stalk of celery - ah, this is the life.
"Bears are gonna win," says John Mundt of Chicago. "Today is their day."
Come 11:30, the expanse of blacktop empties as fans roar into Soldier Field. Piles of smoldering coals lay strewn all about the lot, the only sign of the morning gathering. Tailgate parties are over; it's kickoff time.
(Sam Weller)
copyright 1998 New City Communications, Inc.