Cover story in The Australian newspaper’s Travel supplement. April 5, 2025.

 A few minutes into the tour, Sue cautions that if any of us have brought along our grandfather’s ashes we are not allowed to secretly dump them anywhere on the grounds or anywhere else during the tour. There are other rules as well; no smoking; no swearing; no scooping handfuls of dirt and putting them in your pockets. It is 10.30 in the morning on a sunny, early summer day, and the loamy smell of water on warm grass hangs in the air. My teenage daughter, Sylvie, and I are in the friendly confines – as they are traditionally known – of Wrigley Field in Chicago, taking a tour a few hours before the Cubs face the San Diego Padres, in the second of a three-game series.

Tour Guide Sue is a small, voluble woman in her mid-forties. She is full of jokes, and has a tendency to ask questions then immediately answer them in her flat-vowelled Windy City accent. Thus our small group of hardcore baseball enthusiasts and the kind and patient partners of said enthusiasts learn that “Wrigley Field is the second-oldest field in all of Major League Baseball who knows the oldest? Fenway. Fenway was built in 1912 and we were built in 1914 in what’s called the ‘jewel-box’ design of ballparks which is when ballparks are squeezed inside a city block allowing fans to be right at the heart of the action”. I like how Sue says “we” when referring to the ballpark; it speaks to a strong and abiding sense of pride in the city and its sporting teams that Chicagoans, quite understandably, share.

Wrigley is a stunningly beautiful ballpark. There are ivy-covered brick walls on the outfield, soaring double-deckered grandstands flanking the first and third base lines, and a manually-operated scoreboard with fluttering pennants atop its great green façade which has an iconic white-dotted clock face in the centre. At this hour, before the cheers and boos and sing-alongs of the crowds – 41,649 at capacity – Wrigley is nothing short of a serene peaceful heaven. Little wonder it was designated a National Historic Landmark in 2020.

The tour lasts around ninety minutes, ending around 11am, which leaves a couple of hours to kill before the first pitch. We find ourselves in a thrift store in Wrigleyville, the bar-studded former working-class neighbourhood surrounding the ballpark. The store is huge and, unsurprisingly, there’s a lot of baseball apparel in there. Sylvie puts on a Chicago White Sox and holds a threadbare, ‘pre-supported’ Cubs t-shirt to her chest. “Do I low-key rock this fit?” she says.

“Does 'fit' mean outfit?" I ask. She confirms that it does. I explain that any ‘fit’, rocked low-key or otherwise, is not allowed to mix franchises like that, especially crosstown rivals like the Cubs and the Sox. It’s highly improper, bordering on illegal in this particular case. She leaves the cap and takes the t-shirt. I buy a scoreboard clock keyring, with the time showing 1.20, which is when all day games at Wrigley Field begin.

Chelcie Ross, the Chicago-born actor who appeared in the 1986 film ‘Major League’, throws out the ceremonial first pitch then the Padres ace Dylan Cease takes the ball… I wish I could report that the game itself was an exciting, edge-of-your-seat, comeback for-the-home team-in-the-bottom-of-the-ninth affair but the truth is it was a pretty routine – almost lullingly dull – affair which the Cubs lost 3-0. A perfectly pleasant way to spend a summer afternoon, which is precisely what the game is supposed to offer. In any case, Sylvie and I weren't here for the game itself; we are Baseball fans and Baseball delivered.

 During summer in the U.S, baseball is everywhere; even our hotel room key cards are baseball themed; they feature black and white photographs of jug-eared Cubs and Sox players from the 1920s. Which is altogether fitting, given that we are staying at the Chicago Athletic Association. Built in 1893 as a private men’s social and sporting club, the hotel sits on bustling Michigan Avenue opposite Millennium Park on the east side of downtown. It is a sprawling property of 240 guest rooms, seven bars and restaurants, two ballrooms, three games rooms and one indoor basketball court. There used to be Turkish baths on the ground floor but it’s now a Shake Shack; in an ideal world the two would coexist at the same time in the same space. Not that we are wanting for great food in a great space.

On the seventh-floor rooftop, largely enclosed by an atrium, Cindy’s restaurant has excellent views over Millennium Park; to the left is Anish Kapoor’s famous silver bean sculpture; to the right is the huge and magnificent Art Institute of Chicago, one of Ferris Bueller’s favourite free-day hangouts. The food at Cindy’s is also excellent; in a city renowned for its culinary culture (hello, The Bear) this place stands out. The lamb ragu mafaldine – a comforting yet surprising blend of saffron mafaldine pasta, sichuan peppercorn, basil, olives, parmigiano, and chilli oil – is sublime.

Our roomy suite in the back of the building is among the original accommodations built for sporting club members. It is quite large and studded with fun period details like a train car luggage rack above the desk, and a woollen throw rug with a quote from Chicago native (and actor) Gary Cole woven in: “I miss everything about Chicago except January and February.” (Yours from the CAA shop for $329, plus tax.) The sporting theme continues with sweatshirt-fabric bathrobes modelled on boxers' ring jackets hanging on the door of the spacious, white-tiled bathroom. If the hotel were to put together a playlist it would probably be heavy on Django Reinhardt and Bix Beiderbecke. Which would be a good thing.

 The next day Sylvie and I take a rattling L (short for ‘elevated’) train a few blocks west to Willis tower, where we use our CityPASSES to skip the line for the elevators to Skydeck, the highest observation platform in the United States. Like many people, I enjoy a spectacular view and this one is undeniably that – it is a clear day and from up there on the 103rd floor we can see 80 kilometres in every direction, which means if we squint we can see bits of Wisconsin, Indiana and Michigan, as well as the vast flatness of Illinois directly beneath us. There are plenty of Chicago landmarks down there as well, including Wrigley Field, where the Cubs are losing game two of the series. It’s all very fun and pleasant.

What is not either of those things, however, is The Ledge. The Ledge is a five-sided glass balcony extending from the building’s exterior that allows you to experience being suspended in mid-air 412 metres – practically half a kilometre – above ground. That is if you can bring yourself to actually enter it. Sylvie strolls straight in and begins fearlessly taking selfies before urging me to join her. I linger inside the building proper, taking very deep breaths in the hope that I will hyperventilate and pass out. There are several dozen people behind me, all of them dying to storm into one of the four Ledges and start jumping up and down. A Ledge guide tells me that each Ledge has a load capacity of 4.5 tonnes so I’m in no danger, but if I’m afraid – which I ought not to be – I should try walking slowly backward into the Dangling Death Chamber. This strikes me as the perambulatory equivalent of putting on a blindfold while the firing squad loads its weapons but I try it anyway. Of course, that means I have to turn and face a sea of people, all of whom are 1000 times braver than me, including at least half a dozen school children, every one of whom I can tell is immensely relieved that I am not their father. “Come on, it’s fine,” my own child says behind me. After a few stumbling reverse steps, I get down on my hands and knees and edge slowly backward until there is no floor beneath me, just a few centimetres of laminated glass keeping me (and, I suppose, my daughter) from plummeting to oblivion. When I finally manage to stand up, on severely shaking legs, the waiting crowd applauds. It is a very strange moment; I feel a queasy combination of shame and embarrassment mixed with a dash of triumphant pride.

“You did great, dude,” a tall, bearded man in his thirties tells me as I lurch out moments later. He is wearing a baseball cap with the Wrigley Field scoreboard clock on the crown, the round green face and the white dots insisting that it is always 1.20 PM, game time. In a state of mild astonishment at the mild coincidence I pull out my keyring and show it to him. I tell him that I was at yesterday’s game. “My brother!” he says, before enveloping me in the friendly confines of a bearhug. He is Chicago incarnate – warm, welcoming, brash and big-shouldered – and it’s hard to leave the embrace. Or maybe I’m just glad to be alive after my near-death experience.

“C’mon, Dad, let’s go,” Sylvie says. “It’s embarrassing.”

*

Guided tours of Wrigley Field last 75-90 minutes; from $US30 for adults.

Chicago Athletic Association is perfectly located at 12 S Michigan Ave, downtown Chicago; fantastic rooms from $US188 a night.

Visits to Skydeck Chicago, including The Ledge, are $US43.50 for adults, children $US35.50.