Why Y2K?

Today is 21^st anniversary of the mostly forgotten Y2K, when some predicted all havoc would break loose after the stroke of midnight, January 1, 2000. Our family had a fairly unique experience on the eve of the nonevent.

Back in those days, booking travel – especially around the year-end holiday season – was much more difficult before the onset of online travel sites. Because Janet was a Chicago Public Schools (CPS) teacher and our daughter still in school, the end of December/beginning of January offered the only two weeks of winter travel to her parents’ former apartment in South Florida. Choice airline dates filled up quickly, so we routinely got on the phone early in the year to secure the best itinerary and fares. Janet had to return to work and Marisa to college right after the first of the year, so we booked our return flight on December 31, 1999. My mother booked the same flights, visiting her friend Dort a few towns over. Months later we heard about Y2K and worries about airplanes falling from the skies.

We didn’t even try to rebook, knowing it would be next to impossible to find decent dates and fares. My intuition was these catastrophes weren’t going to happen, reinforced by the opinion of my second cousin, Jim Wolfson, an MIT Ph.D., that the airlines had run hundreds of simulations to ensure their computers would be compliant with the change from 1 to 2. By then I had greater worries: my partner, with whom we had started a business in January 1998 and grew it into one of the 10 largest public relations agencies in Chicago, was basically forcing me out of the company.

The four of us ended up on the last United Airlines flight out of Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport in the 1900s (not the 20^th century, which ended December 31, 2000). The airport was nearly deserted, unlike the usual hustle-and-bustle of holiday times. Besides the relative quiet, I remember one other event.

Our refrigerator had been cleaned out before the trip home, so we opted to get food at airport. The only concession open was Miami Subs, so subs it would be. There was one person ahead of us in line, and the man perfectly personified my father’s favorite rhetorical question: “How come there are always more horses’ assess than horses?” He ordered a hamburger and was told they didn’t have any, to which he snidely replied, “Is it because you don’t have any or you just don’t feel to make one for me?” After receiving the same answer, Mr. Entitled (probably from New York) demanded to speak to the manager. He stepped aside; we ordered our subs and left before finding the result.

Our plane landed – probably early – at O’Hare around 9 p.m. Because there were four of us, we hired a limo to take us home. O’Hare was also virtually deserted, thanks to Y2K and the late hour, probably as deserted as it would be until the pandemic some 20 years later would bring air travel to a halt. The expressways home were a breeze; virtually nobody returning to the city from O’Hare and the fact that most people were probably already at their New Year’s Eve destination.

So, all was well that ended well. We experienced the easiest airplane trip of our lives and I negotiated an acceptable exit from my company effective March 31. None of you reading this will have to worry about Y3K; in fact, only your youngest children/grandchildren will see 2100. Let’s hope the planet hasn’t been ruined by then.

Grandpa Meyer

My grandfather Meyer Bloomfeld (later Bloomfield) was an enigma. One of 10 children, the 7 who grew toward adulthood all attended college, he went straight from high school to law school but never practiced law. A man who showed little emotion for his children or grandchildren yet became very attached to his first great-grandchild at age 81. He worshipped at a Conservative congregation but didn’t show much interest in religion, jokingly (?) stating he would never put butter on a ham sandwich. My grandparents were married 64 years but refused to be buried together. 

Meyer Bloomfeld, ca. 1918

Meyer Bloomfeld was born January 29, 1897, the red-haired son of Abraham Bloomfeld (born 1868 in Burztyn, in what was then Austria-Hungary) and Sarah Wallenstein Bloomfeld (born 1868 in Rajord, Poland). They emigrated here in 1889. Meyer was the third of eight children; one brother and two sisters died before reaching age 2. They lived at 1256 S. Kedzie Blvd. which is now one of the many empty lots on the west side of the street between W. Roosevelt Road and W. 13th Street. His father had a dry-goods business with offices on S. Market Street (now S. Wacker Drive), which allowed him to send his children to college. The family moved to 5644 S. Drexel Ave. (currently a surface parking lot on the campus of the University of Chicago Medical Center), probably in the late 1910s or early 1920s.

Photograph in the Chicago Kent College of Law 1918 yearbook

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I found that some of Abraham’s family were murdered in the Holocaust. For some reason, his three older sisters had the surname Winz. Two of them married and had children, and their children and their spouses and children were among the 13 family members who died in Belzec, Lvov and Rohatyn (https://brulelaker.blogspot.com/2011/04/lvov-and-other-places.html).

After graduating from an unknown grammar school, Meyer traveled one mile north to attend Marshall High School, which then had a large Jewish enrollment. He most likely graduated in 1915. Rather than attend college, he went directly to Chicago Kent College of  Law. His yearbook from the Class of 1918 states “he hopes to enter the military service of the United States.” 

Entry from the Chicago Kent College of Law 1918 yearbook

Sometime during 1918 he enlisted in the U.S. Navy. Judging from his uniform (still in excellent condition), Meyer was an Ensign. During World War I, he said his ship was stationed off Venezuela. From my research, it appeared it was deployed to keep German submarines from docking there and in Colombia. It also kept lanes clear to the Panama Canal, which opened in 1914. One of his bits of wisdom: “Learn how to play a musical instrument so if war breaks out you can play in the band.”

U.S. Navy uniform, World War I

After returning to civilian life, my mother said he flunked the bar exam two or three times. He most likely then went to work for his father; a 1923 directory lists the company as “A. Bloomfield and Sons.” He married Evelyn Sachs in January 1922 and settled on the North Side at 4836 N. Magnolia Ave., a fact I didn’t discover until recently. My mother was born on September 8, 1923; her birth certificate incorrectly lists the family residence as 4036 N. Magnolia, a block that doesn’t exist. A son, Alan, was born on August 8, 1929. The family didn’t reside long on the North Side, moving first to the 5400 block of S. University Ave. (now the site of McCormick School of Theology) and later to a first-floor apartment at 6902 S. Clyde Ave., where my grandparents would reside until 1963. 

The Bloomfields, c.1937 

The Depression was difficult for the family – my mother more than once told me she would go to a relative’s residence to have him pin an envelope with money to her coat. Sometime thereafter Meyer became a salesman for the Lovable Brassiere Company. Founded in Atlanta in 1926 by Gussie and Frank Garson, the company began as a bra manufacturer and eventually expanded into other lingerie lines. One that I found in my grandparents’ spare bedroom was Padettes. Lovable was known for always having an integrated workforce, and Frank’s son and grandson grew the business to become the 6th largest bra company in the world. The loss of major customers in the 1990s caused the company to close in 1998. The Lovable name has been licensed by an India-based company. 

My father kept microfiche of his Army records in this envelope

My grandparents moved from South Shore in 1963 to a 4th-floor corner apartment in 3950 N. Lake Shore Dr. While driving along Lake Shore Drive, one could often see Meyer reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. However, retirement wasn’t for him. It’s said he was happy to get out of the apartment and my grandmother was happy to have him gone most of the day. He became an independent rep for various product lines, including slippers and other sleep products, selling to Walgreen’s and other retailers. 

Meyer was never a good driver – he supposedly drove over a traffic policeman’s foot downtown in the 1920s – but he continued to drive well into his 80s. I was in the backseat when he made a right-turn on red from E. Chestnut Street on to N. Michigan Avenue at the height of a Friday rush hour, as pedestrians screamed and pounded on the car. His response: “It’s legal,” (there was no “No Turn on Red” sign in 1974). We finally persuaded him to give up driving, especially after he had a mini-stroke or two and our daughter was born. He took to taking public transportation, where he’d fall asleep on occasion and have his watch or wallet stolen. 

Our daughter Marisa's 1st birthday party, January 1979

Coming home from work on October 14, 1986, my grandfather said he was tired and went to bed. He passed away shortly thereafter. He was buried in the Western Star section of Jewish Waldheim Cemetery, with his grandfather Aaron Wallenstein, parents, sisters Pearl and Annie and brother Jonas. His brothers Julius and Saul and sisters Diana and Nellie are buried elsewhere. My grandmother, however, is not interred here. She chose to be buried with her family in Rosemont Park (now Zion Gardens) Cemetery in 1992. Growing up, my mother said my grandmother thought Waldheim was too rundown; as adults, she told us my grandmother didn’t want to be buried next to him. So much for 64 years of married life.

Jewish Waldheim Cemetery Western Star section

Baseball in an (Almost) Empty Stadium

If Major League Baseball starts a 2020 season, undoubtedly there will be no fans in the stands. No vendors, no ushers, very few security people and downsized team staffs. The White Sox played the Orioles in an empty Camden Yards (a few scouts were allowed in) on April 29, 2015, because of disturbances in Baltimore after the controversial death of Freddie Gray a few days earlier. The White Sox have played before some very small crowds throughout the years – official attendance numbers are useless as they don’t count the actual fans in the stands – and I attended one of them.

Comiskey Park, Sept. 30, 1990

The White Sox were playing a one-game series versus the New York Yankees on Wednesday, April 19, 1967. The day before, the Sox had defeated the eventual American League champion Boston Red Sox, also in a one-series game, 5-2, before an announced crowd of 1,313. My father was having varicose-vein surgery that Wednesday in what is now Northwestern Memorial Hospital. My mother would travel into the city to be with him. As a senior in my last semester in high school, I figured this would be a great day to ditch school and catch a ballgame. I enlisted my friend Andy Wald to go with me.

Comiskey Park main entrance, Sept. 30, 1990

After my mother departed, I picked up Andy in our 1960 Chevrolet Impala convertible and headed to the South Side. The day was sunny but cold, probably about 40 degrees. Traffic was light on the Edens, Kennedy and Dan Ryan, and we arrived at Comiskey Park well in advance of game time. Figuring for a small crowd, we bought general-admission tickets and settled down in seats behind the far end of the Sox dugout on the 3^rd-base side.

Those attending the 2015 game in Baltimore remarked about the ability to hear various sounds not audible during normal conditions. So it was with an almost empty house. We heard the umpires – most likely 3^rd-base umpire Frank Umont – singing along with the National Anthem and the infield chatter. Some guys a few seats over were yelling at Sox 3^rd baseman Don Buford, probably with racist crap, and Buford in turn traded insults.

Frank Umont, 1955 Bowman card

Along about the 3^rd inning, the sun went behind the grandstand, and the temperature sunk into the 30s. We weren’t dressed for the occasion, so we headed out to the right-field lower deck, where the sun still shone brightly and most of the fans had migrated. From that day until the ballpark closed in 1990, I usually sat in right field – especially in the first row of the upper deck behind the auxiliary scoreboard – on both warm and cool days.

The pitchers were two of the game’s great: Whitey Ford for the Yankees and Tommy John for the White Sox. The Yankees defeated the Sox, 3-0, in what was Ford’s second-to-last MLB victory. Whitey pitched a complete game, yielding 7 hits, 2 strikeouts and 2 walks. John lasted 5 innings, giving up all 3 runs, 2 of which were unearned on an error by normally adept 1^st-baseman Tommy McCraw. Chicago native Jim O’Toole and Wilbur Wood each hurled 2 innings of shutout, 1-hit baseball. Mickey Mantle, now a 1^st baseman, went 0-5 on 3 groundouts and 2 flyouts, lowering his batting average to .100. He retired after the next season, in which I saw him play in my first game in Yankee Stadium.

Whitey Ford and Tommy John

The White Sox would contend in a four-team pennant race with the Red Sox, Tigers and Twins until the final week of the season. A doubleheader loss to the 10^th-place Kansas City A’s, who had won 2 of their last 13 games, on September 27 was the near-death blow; a 1-0 loss to the Washington Senators (the run was scored in the 1^st inning) two days later was the coup de grace.

Down to the Wire, an excellent book on the 1967 AL pennant race

The announced attendance was 3,040, but I’ve always guessed 350 was about it. There were so few that for a time I feared my father would see me on television from his hospital bed.  Ironically, I found one of those 350-some fans after he posted one of my Comiskey Park photos on his blog. It is the subject of my first blog post. It turns out that, like me, he was at the final White Sox game in Yankee Stadium on September 18, 2008. I wrote him I was willing to bet my life that he and I were the only people left who attended both 1967 and 2008 games. https://brulelaker.blogspot.com/2010/10/where-baseball-photography-and-blogging.html

Comiskey Park, Sept. 30, 1990

The game ended in a snappy 2 hours and 17 minutes, plenty of time to get Andy, the captain of the New Trier East track team, back to the suburbs in time for a triangular meet vs. Evanston and Highland Park. I drove directly to Highland Park; no track meet could be found. Figuring it was at New Trier, we headed south to Winnetka, only to find no meet there. I offered to drive Andy to Evanston – we probably would have made it on time – but he declined. The next day in one of classes, a fellow seemingly with no inkling walked up to me and said, “How do you like that? Andy Wald, the captain of the track team, missed a meet to go to a Sox game.” I replied, “Yes, I know. I drove him.” There was no reply.

It’s anybody’s guess whether there will be a baseball season in 2020. One source says it will cost owners far less to cancel the season than to play a partial schedule and thus are making all sorts of ridiculous proposals, figuring the players union will reject them and be scapegoated for no baseball this season. If there is a season, I have one suggestion: no canned crowd noise. Back in the 50s, when the Sox were idle, WCFL would carry an out-of-town game with an announcer reading the play-by-play from a ticker-tape feed with a steady crowd soundtrack. I’m not that nostalgic.

My Last Dance

The Standard Club of Chicago, founded in 1869 by a group of German-Jewish men refused membership in the Chicago Club, closed the doors to its clubhouse today. The building had been basically shuttered since mid-March because of COVID-19; on April 4, the board of directors announced it would not reopen. The clubhouse at 320 S. Plymouth Court, designed by noted architect Alfred Kahn and completed in 1926, is listed for sale, and the club’s fate remains uncertain.

The Standard Club, 320 S. Plymouth Court

This post will neither recap the club’s august history nor discuss the factors that led to its closing; many have or will provide such commentary. I’m writing about the main attraction for many members, which kept me there for 23 years: basketball.

The Standard Club lobby

My highest basketball achievement was honorable mention intramural all-stars as a high-school senior, a half-decent honor considering there were about 600 boys in my graduating class. I’ve loved the game but stopped playing for several years because of family, work and a place to play. Then I heard about the Standard Club games.

Center court, The Standard Club gymnasium

A friend since age 12, with whom I’d attended summer camp, religious school and high school, played in the Monday night and Monday, Wednesday and Friday noon games. The club, he told me, has a short full-court, and games are 4-on-4. I’d also be one of the taller guys if I joined (no discussion of stereotypes here). During one of the membership drives, I was accepted in January 1997. At the time I was a senior vice president at an international public relations firm, so the membership would also be useful professionally.

The Standard Club gymnasium. The blue lines are for pickleball

For what one member called “The Last Gentleman’s Game in the Country,” I stepped back on to the 6th-floor court at age 48. Players ranged from 20-somethings to 70 and older. Unwritten rules were simple: no trash-talking, defense calls the fouls and no rough stuff. The last would be broken in league games, tournaments and by occasional hacks or clothes lines. Games were 8 minutes by the clock, and the Health & Fitness Center (H&FC)  supervisors made the teams; rather than winner-stays-on, players were rotated to ensure nobody sat for more than one game at a time. Half-court games resulted if 16 or more members showed up.

One 4-man team wore the color-of-the-day mesh pullovers

Basketball was only played on Monday nights when the games originated in the early 1960s. This produced an interesting story, passed down through the decades. One of the players met the wife of another player, who told him, “I think it’s great you guys play on Monday and Wednesday nights and then go out for dinner.” She eventually found out the truth. They are no longer married.

The drop ceiling limited the length of shots

The basketball players’ annual event – The Hall of Shame Dinner – was held annually for several years, interrupted for five years until one final get-together last year. A Hall of Shame Award winner is chosen, based on a minimum of 10 years’ playing experience; ability (or lack thereof) is not applicable. The dinner featured a speaker from the sports world, preferably basketball. The best during my tenure was the late Norm Van Lier, which included tales of hanging out with Led Zeppelin; last year’s speaker was Matt Gordon, an assistant coach of the Final Four Loyola University Ramblers and brother of H&FC Director Mike Gordon. A side note: When Loyola qualified for the 2018 NCAA tournament, the players anted up to send Mike to Dallas to see the first round. After the Ramblers made it to the second round, we dug deeper into our pockets to send Mike to Atlanta. Against all odds, Loyola made it to the Final Four in San Antonio, and we came through once again for Mike’s plane fare and hotel room.

3-on-3 Tournament, 2002. Only three other members played in the 2020 tournament

The 3-on-3 Tournament, started in 2002, was played for the last time on February 22, 2020. Eight teams are assigned by the H&FC staff for the half-court games. Each game is 12 minutes or if one team scores 10 baskets. My first and only win came in 2012, when we tied a semifinal game on a desperation last-second shot, won on free throws and went on to take the title. The spirited competition features mostly guys in their 20s and 30s. At least two broken noses resulted during the years. After several year’s hiatus, hitting age 70 and sensing this would be the last 3-on-3 tournament, I signed up, hoping not to embarrass myself. Only one other player was older; the two of us were more than 10 years senior to the next youngest players. I held my own; this time we lost in the semifinals on tie-breaker free throws.

3-on-3 Tournament, 2020. John Gable (holding ball) at 73 was the oldest player

I almost forgot to include a tribute to my great friend, Marc Wayne, the other H&FC staffer. The Berwyn native supervised nearly every game, seated at his "office" where he ran the scoreboard (for time, not scores except for league games) and made up the teams. On occasions he would fill in when we were short on personnel, holding back on lofting his soft lefthanded jump shots in deference to the members. His sophomoric humor is loved by all. I'll miss his shouting, "He's no Fred Biletnikoff" every time I muff a pass.

Marc Wayne's "office": the scorer's table

During these 23 years, I’ve had an angioplasty, partial nephrectomy, torn meniscus and extreme lower back pain; each time I stepped back on the court it was like getting a significant part of my life back. The friendships on and off the court transcend a simple game. We did business together, dined together, mourned the loss of thankfully only a few of our stalwarts together, attended Sox games together, watched a son play college basketball together and played basketball outdoors on summer Saturday mornings some 40 miles northwest of Chicago together. The club has entered into an agreement with another downtown club to use its facilities; I've elected not to sign up. Until I find another game, the summer games might be it for my basketball career. If so – and this was My Last Dance – at least I had a final hurrah.

I walked off the court for the last time, April 13, 2020