It was like a dream. I came home to find two guys checking names at the front door. They found me listed on a clipboard, gave me a lanyard with a credential showing I belonged, and waved me upstairs.
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Living in a Wrigley Field rooftop apartment undeniably had an element of boyhood romance. Bleacher tickets, then $3.50, were sold only on the day of the game. Crowds would begin lining up at six or seven on a weekend morning outside the gates at Sheffield and Waveland, especially on beautiful days in that halcyon summer of 1984. In the winter there was nothing quite as beautiful as the sun setting behind a snow-covered Wrigley.
The landlord was squeamish about letting people on the roof and only permitted it when he was around. (The landlord’s pals claimed someone got too drunk on an opening day a year or two before and fell off, impaling himself on the fence below.)
