Spring in Chicago officially began on opening day of 2000, and a coworker of ours sent out the official invitation for a huge rooftop party in Wrigleyville. A flurry of emails went out, asking to switch days and switch shifts, but I had heard too much about the Wrigleyville parties to give up what became a coveted day off.

We traipsed between the bars that surrounded Wrigley Field, doing shots at Murphy’s and chugging beers at the Cubby Bear, before approaching a house across the street from the left field wall. “Just say you’re here for the party,” a few people murmured.

On a rooftop, as we looked out at the crowds and onto the old stadium, Gordon scooted next to me. Liquid courage, I thought, looking down at the beer in my hand, my fifth drink since 10 a.m., when I...

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