It was a warm, sunny Monday in Chicago, October 1945. Game 6 of the World Series was about to begin, and Wrigleyville buzzed like a hornet’s nest. The Cubs were back from Detroit, having taken two of three games, and now, having dropped two games in Chicago, needed a win to force a deciding Game 7. Hot dog vendors barked every fifty feet, the smell of mustard hanging thick in the air around Clark and Addison. A cool wind blew in off Lake Michigan, perfect for the Cubs’ big bats.

Two thirteen-year-old street-wise boys, Mike and Johnny, were neighbors, living just six blocks from the stadium. School was out for Columbus Day, and there was no way they were missing this game, with or without a ticket.

Unfortunately, between the two of them, they could scrape together only fifty-eight cents. It would take nearly two dollars each to get in. But these were resourceful boys, not the kind to be deterred by something as trifling as money, particularly since they were used to not having any. Like everyone else in war-time America, they had been sacrificing for the victory over the turmoil Hitler had forced upon the world. The war had just ended a month earlier and life was showing signs of coming back to normal.

That morning, they had already tried returning bottles to the corner grocer, old Coke bottles they had fished out of overpasses and alleys over the weekend. They’d mowed one neighbor’s lawn for a dime and cleaned the stoop for another. Mike even considered selling a cherished Stan Hack baseball card but in the end couldn’t part with it. They pooled what they had – four dimes, eighteen pennies, and a Payday bar. It wasn’t much, but they weren’t giving up, particularly Johnny, the more resourceful of the two boys.

“Mikey,” Johnny said, “I’m gonna get us in to that park. You can count it.”

Johnny knew Fire Station 78 sat directly across from Wrigley on Sheffield Avenue. The fire chief, Bill Robinson, always parked his yellow 1939 Ford Super Deluxe convertible right up next to a hydrant along the stadium wall. Johnny had thought that was the most beautiful car he had ever laid his eyes upon and had been chased away from it a number of times. The boys had also noticed before that his car left a sliver of space by the fence, just enough for a scrawny kid or two to wriggle through.

They tried once before the game but were spotted by Chief Robinson himself.

“Get away from my car or I’ll beat you with a fire hose! Go on, get outa here!” he barked.

So they backed off, circled the stadium, catching snippets of crowd noise and missing Hank Greenberg’s second-inning solo homer for Detroit. Time, and perhaps the Cub’s season was slipping away.

But luck turned. As they rounded the left field side again, they saw the fire engine pulling away with Chief Robinson at the wheel. They made a beeline for the spot. In seconds, they ducked behind the Ford, under the fence, and into Wrigley Field.

Their triumph was short-lived. As they crept up the tunnel toward the bleachers, sunlight spilling in, grass in view, they heard a voice behind them.

“Hey, you two. Let me see your tickets!”

Mike froze. Johnny almost plowed into him. At the bottom of the stairs stood a man built like a tree stump, arms crossed, eyebrows knitted.

“Yes, sir,” Johnny said, as they turned around.

The man was Don Salzman, a longtime security guard at Wrigley. His face was lined with the permanence of stone. He extended his palm.

“Tickets?”

The boys stared at the floor.

“That’s what I thought. Come with me.”

He marched them to a cramped, overheated office not far from where they’d entered. Two flimsy chairs sat in front of an old metal desk. They sat. He loomed.

“My name’s Don Salzman. What’s yours?”

“I’m Johnny Evers, and he’s Mike McCarthy,” Johnny lied. Both names had been Cub’s players from the past.

Don raised an eyebrow. “Smart asses, huh? Weren’t you two poking around the Chief’s car earlier?”

They nodded.

He sighed. “I thought that was you. I should throw you both in jail. Just what in tarnation makes you think you deserve to see a World Series game for free, when everyone else paid their hard-earned money?”

No answer. Mike looked like he was about to cry. He didn’t want to have to call his dad from jail.

Don softened, just a hair. “How much money ya got?”

Johnny reached into his pocket. Mike followed. On the desk they laid down three crumpled baseball cards, a half-eaten Payday bar, eighteen pennies, and four dimes.

Don chuckled despite himself. “Claude Passeau, Phil Cavarretta, and Stan Hack? Those cards have seen better days.”

He glanced at the boys. Dilapidated mitts hung from their belts. Their Cubs hats drooped like old dogs. Something stirred in him.

“When I was your age,” Don began.

Johnny rolled his eyes.

“Don’t give me that,” Don snapped. “I was your age once. Wanted nothing more than to see the Reds play. But we couldn’t afford it back in Cincinnati. Moved to Chicago in 1907. My dad got me this job in ’08 over at West Side Park, before Wrigley was built. Been with the Cubs organization ever since. I’ve seen it all, Tinker, Evers, Chance, Mordecai ‘Three Fingers’ Brown.”

“Three Fingers?” Mike asked.

“Lost two tips in a farming accident. Still pitched better than anyone I ever saw.”

He leaned back, the chair groaning.

“Don’t believe that crap about Ruth calling his shot in ’32, either. If he had, Charlie Root would’ve planted a fastball on his forehead. That big baby would’ve had Spalding tattooed on his head.”

The boys laughed.

“You boys look thirsty. Don’t move.”

While Don was gone, the boys whispered about what would happen. Jail? Their parents? Mike knew his old man would blister his backside if he got in trouble. But their worry would turn into speculation about the score. Johnny had to reassure Mike that crying would only make things worse.

Don returned fifteen minutes later with three bottles of Coca-Cola.

“Top of the fifth,” he said. “Cubs down 1–0.”

They groaned.

“Come with me.”

They followed him through the tunnel, turning toward the field. As they emerged, Johnny nearly lost his breath at the expanse of sunshine, blue skies, and green. He could smell the fresh cut grass. Mike kept his head down, still convinced he was headed for jail.

But then Don stopped at the front row behind third base.

“Three open seats, boys” he said. “Let’s watch the game.”

They sat. For nearly the next two hours, Don talked baseball history and quizzed them on Cubs trivia. Told them how they missed a fiasco in Game 4 when a man brought a goat into the stands. Said Mr. Wrigley tossed him out and the man cursed the team. Said they’d never win another pennant or go to the World Series again.

“Goat curse,” Don scoffed. “You ever hear such bull?”

Just then Mickey Livingston hit a double and the crowd erupted. The Cubs rallied to a 7–2 lead by the seventh. Mike dared to hope. But then Passeau injured his hand fielding a grounder. Wyse came in and gave up four runs. Tie game.

Still, in the twelfth, with two outs, Stan Hack walloped a walk-off double to win it. Wrigley erupted. The boys cheered until their throats were sore.

Sadly, they would lose Game 7. But the memory of Game 6 stuck forever.

Fifteen years later, Johnny – now known as John at the auto garage he managed – was sipping coffee before work, skimming the obituaries. It was three days before Christmas.

“Don Salzman, 80, longtime security guard at Wrigley Field,” one notice read.

No mention of goats. Or front-row seats. Or boys with no tickets.

John stared at the paper. He thought of that day. Of Phil Cavaretta and Stan Hack. Of Mike, killed in Korea. ‘Life never goes how you think it will,’ he thought to himself.

He blinked once. Put down his coffee. And smiled.

Later that year, John took his own son, Johnny Jr. – now eight years old – to a game, parking near Firehouse 78. The Cubs were hosting their old rivals, the detested St. Louis Cardinals. As they walked toward the left-field entrance, John glanced at the fire hydrant, half-expecting that ’39 Ford to be parked beside it. Oh, the story he’d have for Johnny one day.

As they stepped into the tunnel and caught their first glimpse of the field, John leaned down and whispered, “Johnny, this place has magic in it. Watch for it.”

The boy said nothing – his wide eyes said it all. He reached down to check that his ball glove was still clipped to his belt, just like Dad had shown him that morning.

John had splurged on seats right behind the Cubs’ dugout, third base side. It was probably more for his benefit than his son’s. The Cubs were taking batting practice when they sat down. Moments later, a screaming foul ball whizzed over their heads and clanged into the section behind them. A woman screamed. Everyone stood to look. Her husband sat holding the side of his head, blood trickling from his ear.

For most of the game after that, Johnny held his glove up to his face like a catcher’s mask.

John just smiled. Maybe the kid needed a little more seasoning before he could call Wrigley home.

The game ended with an Ernie Banks homer, just one of the 41 he’d hit that year. Such a fine memory that day.

[Author’s Note: This story is fictional, but like all baseball stories, contains a few innings of truth.]