I could feel my eyes begin to well up…The

I could feel my eyes begin to well up…The sickening feeling of tears running behind my face, into my nose and down the back of my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even gasp.

I clawed for the button to roll down the window like a rat on a sinking ship. Locked. Dad had locked the windows. Now he turned the heat on full blast. What had he eaten? I'm

fragile. Hello? The too-hot car was melting the adhesive on my false eyelashes and they started drooping, making me look like a tarted-up Lindsay Lohan after a weekend bender. Dad

though wouldn't bail me out. The rest of my football team dressed as various versions of bong-hitting Mylie Cyrus or BP oil spill clean up folks. Our coach

was the best dressed guy on the sidelines, though hardly a fashion guru. Stone washed jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts hardly give an image of authority. Still, the team was only

just visible under the thick layers of t-shirts, long-sleeved shirts, cardigans, knitted woolly jumpers, fur coats and bobble hats. Oddly, the teams legs were bares in their shorts

- or was it that that team's legs had BEARS in their shorts? Yes, that would explain why

They all had that harsh Soufside accent. They would talk reverently about Soldiers Field, and da Sox, and insisted on hot dogs with celery salt and a virtual salad of condiments.

Pasta salad. Potato salad. Egg salad. Otherwise, no salad. That was how these Chi-Town locals rolled. Even after Big Eddie had his triple bypass, he still