A first-hand account of the celebration in Wrigleyville after the Chicago Cubs won the World Series.
I’m blessed enough to be a college student in the greater Chicagoland area in the most exciting time in Chicago sports since the Jordan era. I’m also blessed enough to say I was in Wrigleyville when the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. And let me tell you, it was something.
The streets ran thick with malt liquor. You couldn’t see five feet in front of you. For the first time in my life, I was legitimately skeptical as to whether I would make it home without first being bludgeoned by one of the four flying mini-fridges I saw being hurled around an arm’s length away from me. And it was fucking magnificent.
In the crazed eyes of every Chicagoan last night I saw more than just the glee that a monumental victory such as this one can deliver. I saw hope. Optimism. Let me remind you that we’re talking about the Chicago Cubs right now. You couldn’t find the words hope and optimism in the same book as ‘Chicago Cubs’ before last night. But now, there might just be a dynasty blooming on the north side of Chicago – and that’s special.