Randolph Street: Westward Home

If it's Friday, this must be Randolph Street. Photojournalist Jon Randolph takes us on a tour of the West Loop, a neighborhood bounded by the Eisenhower Expressway on the south, the Metra commuter rail lines on the north, the Kennedy and Dan Ryan expressways on the east and Ashland Avenue on the west. The area is home to a dizzying variety of residents and...

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Willis Tower from the 200 block of N. Peoria St.

The Palace Grill, 1124 W. Madison St.

In the meat market district,

800 block of W. Fulton St.

The Lyon & Healy harp factory loading dock,

near Ogden Ave. and Lake St.

The Chicago Boyz Acrobatic Team,

practicing at Union Park,

Randolph Street and Ashland Avenue

Looking north from W. Fulton St.

Whitney M. Young Magnet High School,

211 S. Laflin Ave.

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... businesses, from the meat and seafood wholesale markets near Lake Street to the chic restaurants on Randolph Street, and from the young professionals near Grand Avenue to the single-room-occupancy hotels around Union Park.

Jon Randolph shares his peeks into Chicago life every Friday on The Third City. Join us every day for the (take your pick) well-reasoned observations or fanatical ravings of Benny Jay and Big Mike Glab. And, hey, don't forget our frequent Letters From Milo, penned by Gary's Greatest Writer.

Benny Jay: The Greatest Night Of The Year

It's the greatest basketball night of the year: Bulls-Lakers, March Madness, and the state high school boys championship game. All on TV at the same time. Free TV, too. Not cable. Even I can watch. Is life good, or what?

I'm flipping from game to game to game. Texas is beating Duke. Good. Can't stand Duke. Coach is a Republican -- `nuff said right there. And Chicago's Whitney Young High School is beating Waukegan High School. Go, Chi. Best of all, my Bulls are trouncing the Lakers -- up sixteen. That's double good cause, one, I love the Bulls, and, two, I can't stand the Lakers.

My Wife's out of town, so I get to clap as loud as I can for every Bulls rebound, bucket, steal and blocked shot.

My Younger Daughter and her friend, Brazil, sit at the computer, heads together, giggling. Oblivious to me and my noise.

Then it flips. Texas falls behind. Waukegan catches up. Worse, the Lakers catch fire.

I gotta talk about it -- can't get through this alone. I call my bowling buddy Norm. He doesn't pick up. Must be working. Call Johnny, the Black Forest Gump. He's driving to work -- can't talk.

The Bulls fall behind by seven. I can't bare to watch. I go back to the high school game. Young up seven. I sneak a look back at the Bulls. They're down 12. Back to high school. But I can't get into the game cause I'm too worried about the Bulls. I'm wondering: What's the score? Maybe they're on a roll? Maybe they've taken the lead! I start to change back to the game. I stop. No, I need a new approach -- something to change the Bulls luck. I know! I'll check the score on my computer. That might turn things around, like the game's outcome is, you know, predicated on how I follow it.

This theory, by the way, is not as nutty as it sounds. During the first great Bulls playoff run of the early 1990s, Big Mike, my dear friend and writing partner, used to leave the room to walk around the block during testy moments of close games. More than once, his walks ignited come backs by the Bulls. After awhile, we wouldn't even wait for him to leave. We'd just look at him and he knew: Time to walk. In an other example -- this one back in 1989 -- my neighbor, Janet, wandered into my house while a bunch of us were watching a Bulls-Pistons playoff game. When she took a seat at the far eastern corner of my couch, the Bulls were down about 15. Soon thereafter, they rallied and cut the lead to one. Oblivious to the game, much less her role in it, Janet rose to leave with less than a minute left to, and I'm not making this up, work in her garden. Oh, no you don't, we chorused -- you're the reason the Bulls came back. We made her sit in that same far eastern corner of the couch until the game was over -- won, as I recall, on a Michael Jordan bank shot.

So, anyway, I run up stairs and turn on my computer, hoping that I will be rewarded with good news. But, no. Bulls down 14. It didn't work.

I return to the TV and watch the high school game. The camera shows the cheerleaders. I see Taaj, Johnny's daughter. I call Johnny to break the news.

"Your daughter's getting more TV time than Oprah," I tell him.

He cracks up. "That's a good one...."

We hang up. I race upstairs to check the computer. Damn! Bulls lost. I call Norm. No answer. I leave a message: "I can't stand the Lakers. Can't stand their players, coaches, owner, stadium -- nothing. I don't even like their uniforms!"

I hang up. I watch the high school game. A few minutes pass. This is how desperate I am for some basketball conversation: "Yo, Ray; Zilly," I call out to my daughter and her friend. "C'mon watch your school win the state championship...."

To my utter astonishment, they leave the computer to watch the final moments -- a dunk, a steal, some free throws. The buzzer sounds. As Whitney Young's players pour on the court in jubilation, the camera shows the cheerleaders.

"Oh, my God," says my daughter. "It's Taaj...."

I repeat my killer line: "That girl's getting more TV time than Oprah...."

Total bomb. They ignore me.

The Young team lines up to get their first-place medals. Dr. Kenner, the school's principal, hands them out.

"Okay, Dr. Kenner," says my daughter. "I see you...."

The team manager steps up. "Oh, my God," says Brazil. "It's Preston...."

"That boy is too thirsty to get his medal," says my daughter.

The star scorer gets his medal. "That's the boy who keeps texting my sister," says Brazil.

"For real?" says my daughter.

"For real...."

Another player gets his medal. "Ugh, he's funny looking," says Brazil.

"Some of the girls think he's cute," I offer, eager to participate in the conversation.

"Not me," says Brazil.

She points to the next kid in line and says: "Now he's cute...."

"He's so obnoxious," says my daughter. "He's so full of himself...."

"I know, but he's cute," says Brazil.

One boy leans in to kiss the principal on her cheek, but she's looking the other way. And he backs away without a kiss.

"Ooh, treated," says my daughter.

When they finish giving out the medals, the girls go back to the computer. I put on my coat and hat and grab the leash. "I'm gonna walk the dog," I tell them.

They got their heads together and they're giggling. I wait for them to say something to me, but they don't. So I clip the leash to the dog's collar, step out of the house, pull out my phone and give Johnny another call. I figure we got another fifteen minutes of basketball to talk about -- at least.

Benny Jay: North Lawndale versus Whitney Young

by Nicky Diamond, authored January 16, 2008

Sammy and I are on a roll. Having watched the Bulls yesterday, we decide to check out tonight's Big Game: Whitney Young High School versus North Lawndale High School.

North Lawndale's ranked first in the Chicago area and Young's ranked seventh and the game's on TV so it's a really big deal.

We pick up Nick -- who used to play football on a team I coached -- then head over to Young. My bowling buddy, Norm, was supposed to come, as was John, the security guard, and Pamela, the referee, and Randy, the retired teacher. But Norm's got a party and John's got the night shift and Pamela's working a game, and Randy's recuperating from an operation on his knee.

We sit on the Young side of the court -- behind a man who used to coach high school basketball in Mississippi. And it's quite a scene. The gym's packed. They've got North Lawndale's students on one side and Young's on the other. And they're going at it -- each side teasing and taunting the other. All good fun.

The game's nip and tuck. As soon as one team goes up, the other team comes back. They're both good -- but neither is good enough to put the other away. North Lawndale misses too many free throws, Young can't make its layups.

It comes down to one last possession -- Young with the ball down by three. Marcus Jordan drives, North Lawndale's defenders converge and Jordan shuffles a pass to Anthony Johnson, who's been left open in the corner. As it unfolds, I'm thinking: Why did the defenders drop off of Johnson? He's behind the three point line. The best Jordan can do is hit a layup which will only cut the lead to one. But if Johnson hits that three....

Game tied! He buries that baby -- nothing but net. Man, those kids from Young -- they blow the roof off of that joint -- screaming, cheering, stomping. It's like all the good in life gets encapsulated in that moment.

That's two OT's in two nights for Sammy and me -- we truly are on a roll.

Young wins and their kids are singing songs of happiness. I feel good for them, but not too good, cause I also feel bad for North Lawndale. Their players look like they want to cry -- got their heads down and shoulders slumped as they shuffle off the floor. I have a whole pep talk I want to give them: Could have gone either way, shot falls here, shot falls there....

"They should have hit their free throws," says Nick.

"They shouldn't have dropped off of Johnson to double on Jordan," I say.

"High school kids," says the coach from Mississippi. "Gotta cut 'em some slack."

As he says that, I flash back to Rasheed Wallace doing the same thing in game five against San Antonio in the NBA championship back in 2005. He dropped off of Robert Horry to cover Manu Ginobili. And, bam, Horry buried a three to win the game. If Wallace doesn't leave Horry, he doesn't hit that shot and San Antonio doesn't win that game and maybe Detroit wins the championship, instead of the other way around.

And the thing is -- Horry's nickname is Big Shot Rob cause, you know, he always hits the big shot. So how in the hell can you drop off a guy they call Big Shot Rob? But that's how it goes. You get a split second to make a decision -- later on you can only hope it's the right one.

The kids stream out the gym, breath turning to steam in the cold. It's hard to tell who's from North Lawndale and who's from Young -- everybody's got their hoods up and winter coats on. Looks like the game's long since forgotten. Seems like everyone's laughing, carrying on and planning where to party.

I try to remember what it's like to be 16 or 17 or 18. But that was a long time ago....