It was a standard barroom argument. But it happened in the bar of the Heartland Cafe, the Rogers Park watering hole for refugees from an earlier, earthier era.
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“Hey, duh Bulls are playin’!” the owner grumped, and made a move toward the channel changer. A big guy who probably used to be an athlete, with an ostrich egg of a bald spot nestled in a shaggy nest of blondish hair, he moved in quick spurts, a little like Dick Butkus making his way to the refrigerator for some cocktail weenies. To the owner’s dismay, his way was blocked by the female bartender, who was backed up by the barstoolers’ muffled groans of protest. “We took a vote,” the bartender said to him.
His eyes wide with amazement at our audacity, the owner grilled his patrons. “Who voted for Cheers? Did you?” he accused a guy in a beret. The Francophile admitted that, well, yes, he had. Then the owner raised an eyebrow menacingly and shoved his forefinger at me like a dagger. “Did you?” he said. I told the truth, and one at a time, the rest of those who’d cast their lot with Sam and Nahmy stood up for their constitutional right to sit around in a bar nursing beers and watching a show that makes sitting around in a bar swilling beers seem like something eventful. Some of us felt like less of a man for owning up, but we did.
The game continued to be close, with the Cavs inching a little further ahead every once in a while. With less than three minutes to go, the Cavs pulled ahead by seven points.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Bruce powell.
