dannystewart99

The big move is coming…

For the first time ever, I won’t have a moving buddy.

I’m feeling a little existential lately.

Call it stress, call it anxiety, call it feeling overwhelmed. Call it whatever you’d like – it’s all the above.

There are a few ingredients in this cacophonous crisis cocktail, but one stands out above the rest. The granddaddy of independence is upon me as I take a gigantic leap into life’s next great adventure: I’m moving out on my own.

For the first time ever, I won’t have a moving buddy. For the first time ever, I will be living by myself.

It’s taken 28 years, but I’m finally out on my own.

For the first 17 years of my life, I shared a bedroom with my older brother. As things go in large Irish Catholic families, all spaces were shared. Bathrooms and bedrooms didn’t belong to anyone individually, you were just thankful to have it.

Coming from a big family, it’s always hard to move away from them, though. When I packed up and moved to college, or across the country, or to my first apartment after college to the next apartment after that – each felt like a big step but I was never going to be alone in any of those moves.

Here’s a rundown of all my moves to this point:

Kennebunkport, ME to Chicago, IL

This was the easiest move of them all, but I’m sure chaotic for my parents. I was a little less than 2-years-old when it happened so I had no control over the situation. No heavy lifting, no removing doors to fit desks through them, no worrying if a trailer was going to unhook from the car and nearly cause a highway pileup accident. I just sat back and ate mush while everybody else did the work.

When I was 5, we moved to a new suburb and that’s where we are to this day. I didn’t have to do much lifting there either, but I had my Woody moving buddy with me at all times:

Suburban Chicago, IL to Columbia, MO

I lived with my best friend from home in college for all four years. Freshman year, we had bunkbeds and shared a bathroom with 10 other guys as well as a janitor who only used our floor’s bathroom out of 8 total floors to take care of his business.

Here’s one of many pictures of the janitor’s feet from under the stall because he was never not using our floor’s bathroom and we all made sure to document the times.

Sophomore year of college, I moved into an apartment for the first time and finally got my own bedroom with a door as well as my own bathroom for the very first time. It took 19 years for that milestone to occur, however, I still had the shared living space to keep me company with my friends. Junior and senior year were the same.

I also brought my Sheriff Woody toy (not the big one pictured above, but a regular-sized Woody) with me to college and to every move since because it never felt right to me that Andy didn’t bring Woody to college with him in Toy Story 3, but I digress.

Columbia, MO/Suburban Chicago, IL to Boston, MA and Providence, RI

I lived and worked in Boston and Rhode Island for two summers to intern for the Pawtucket Red Sox. In Boston, I lived with my aunt and uncle and when I moved to Rhode Island, I lived in a bachelor pad apartment above the garage of an old friend of my dad’s. I became friends with their family and I spent loads of time with them, so I never felt alone. I actually really miss them, they were an awesome hang.

Providence, RI to Suburban Chicago, IL

From there, I moved back into the basement of my parents’ home in suburban Chicago as I looked for full-time work, found a job, looked for apartments, stopped looking for apartments due to a global pandemic, didn’t leave the house because of the global pandemic, and then found a new job over the course of a year and a half.

Suburban Chicago, IL to Chicago, IL

Six months into that job, I bought my first car and considered the idea of an apartment again. Now that lockdowns were lifted and I could spend more time with my friends in the city limits of Chicago, I wanted to be closer to the action. My brother started coaching football at Saint Xavier University and attended classes there too. So we moved in together nearby the university.

Me, my younger brother, one bathroom, and a third-floor 2BR apartment with no central air. We couldn’t get packages delivered to this apartment due to frequent theft. Did I also mention both of our cars were vandalized while living here too? But hey, it was my first apartment after college, my brother’s first apartment ever, and we stayed there for two years. Not as shabby as I made it sound.

Chicago, IL to Chicago, IL

From there, I moved even closer to the action into a 3BR apartment with one of my best friends. This apartment I wrote about in a blog from that summer about finding the perfect apartment. It was his first apartment after college and my first time having a sizeable space to spread out an office and a bedroom to two separate rooms since I work a hybrid schedule. It was a quick L-train ride to my in-office space and it had free street parking. It was also just a great time.

As things go though, I only lived in that apartment for 11 months. My friend moved in with his girlfriend and I had also racked up a not-so-pretty amount of credit card debt.

My options were limited: find a not-so-cheap studio to bide time in and make my debt worse or move back in with my parents to tackle my debt and help my mom as she prepared to have her hip replaced.

There really was only one option.

So here I am, nine months later. My mom’s hip is metal, I’m debt free, I got a raise at work, and I’m finally in a place where I can comfortably move out on my own. But that wasn’t the plan from the get-go when I moved back home.

There was a lot about moving home that was hard, despite my parents so easily allowing me to come back in. I moved into my sister’s old bedroom so I had a door to shut and a place to go to to be alone. I was moving back to our home that hadn’t looked like this since 1998: my parents, my older brother, and me. If only the Bulls were as good now as they were in 1998. At first, it was just the four of us and the adjustment began.

But as the nine months have progressed, all four of my siblings have since moved underneath the same roof again. I love my parents and my siblings to death and they know that, I make sure they know that, but I quickly found out that independence was a priceless commodity I had the last few years.

While not paying rent at my parents’ place, I sent a rent-sized payment to my credit card debt for a few months. I didn’t have to worry about buying my own groceries, but did spend money and sanity on my commutes to the city.

Every plan needed a plan of its own so I could logistically make it work. Going to a concert in the city on the weekend? Celebrating a friend’s birthday or engagement? Maybe just staying a little longer at the office to wait out traffic? Pack a bag with all the essentials, pay for overnight parking in a garage, and sleep on a couch. Again and again.

Every time I drove to the city to hang out and inevitably crash on my friends’ couches over the weekend, one song always ironically shuffled on as I approached the city on the Dan Ryan:

It’s this anthem about a suburban kid who just wants to break free; who feels like he has to escape his town to actually matter. It calls out the dullness of suburban life, while clinging to this dream of something better, somewhere else. I played all nine minutes of it every time, imagining the day I’d finally move back to the city to “get my life back on track.” But that was whenever away.

For the time being, I had to commute further for work and my friends. Like I said, the commute took a toll on me. Not only in having to pay about ~$20 per day to either take the train or drive and park, but in my mental and physical health as well.

To get to the office at the time that I like without traffic or a crowded train, my wake-up alarm is at 4:30 a.m. After 11 months of basically rising, showering, and training to work in under an hour when living in the city, my day started about three hours before work started just to get there. Not to mention the commute home where the rush hour traffic is never-ending on days I drove. On days I took the train, there’s added anxiety to make an express Metra train back to the burbs to ensure a smooth 50-minute commute compared to the 1 hour and 20-minute regular commute that makes all the stops.

This is the most accurate portrayal of each of these commutes:

But despite all of that, I paid off my debt in about 5 months back at home and I’ve started to actually stack up my paychecks since then. I started looking for apartments in February of this year and I continued to say things like “I need to get my life back on track.”

The same brother I lived with before was looking for places too for a while, but he wanted to sit on some cash after moving across the country and living paycheck to paycheck while coaching football in Boston.

I had checked out a few 1BR places before he and I made a plan to live together again, then once he decided he’d rather stay at home for a little longer, I was content with saving a bit more money myself until he was ready.

A couple weeks after that my youngest brother moved home from college and my sister started planning to move home as well. The week of St. Patrick’s Day, I toured then fired away an application at a 1BR that I really liked for a solid price in the city. I got the apartment and now all of a sudden, I’m two weeks away from moving in.

For the first time, the electric bill, the gas bill, the rent, the internet, the phone bill, and the parking pass are all my sole responsibility.

The crumbs on the floor, the hair in the drain, the dishes in the sink. They’re all going to be mine now.

I’m going to be alone. No moving buddy (besides Woody). Just me, my stuff that’s still mostly in boxes from 9 months ago, and an apartment.

Everybody’s said things like “oh, you’re going to love it!” or “The best time of my life was when I lived by myself!” and even “You can walk around naked!”

But none of that has really stuck with me. What I keep thinking about is this anxiety of when I said “I need to get my life back on track.”

When I first moved back home, I was angry with myself and at the world. I couldn’t believe I got myself into a situation where I had to move away from my friends and work because I couldn’t afford it. I felt like a bum.

But after nine months of living at home, I’ve realized my life was always on track.

As I wrap up, I’ll say this: everything happens for a reason and time spent with loved ones is always time well-spent.

In this time back at home, I’ve learned how to be better at my spending habits, budgeting, and what it will take to eventually own a home. I’ve also gotten the time to spend going to ballgames, concerts, bars, parties, and more with my family.

It’s been a decade since I first moved out for college. But after all these moves, my family and friends have been with me, guiding me on my track to this big move.

I was never off the track. Bent but not broken. Each moment has led me to moving out on my own after 28 years. I have my friends and family to thank for making sure I was in one piece by the time I got here.

This won’t be my last move. It might just be my last move out from home until I have a home of my own.

So, I am a little sad that I’m moving out on my own, but every experience has made me readier than ever.

To wrap up, I leave you with my favorite song by my favorite band with the lasting words of “I guess this is growing up.”

~DS

P.S.

There’s one other song I’d like to share that I found in my time home that helped calm me on my commutes, make me smile on sad days, and get through some low points. Enjoy, I hope it does the same for you!

How can you not be romantic about baseball?

“This field, this game – it’s a part of our past. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.”

I can’t believe it’s already March.

To me, March is a huge month. It marks the beginning of St. Patrick’s Month, which is another great landmark celebration during the year (especially following my last blog about my experience with Dry January).

The upcoming Chicago St. Patrick’s Day Parade and the South Side Irish Parade that follows it are two of my favorite days of the year. While I’m proud of my Irish heritage every day, getting to celebrate during an entire weekend in the greatest city in the world makes it extra special.

So, you’d bet your ass I will be using this entire month to make up for the month I lost earlier this year. But, this blog isn’t about St. Patrick’s Day, it’s about another pastime that I and many others hold near and dear.

Every March, I take at least two days off of work: the Monday following the two aforementioned parades and Opening Day.

This month grants us the return of baseball. Our national pastime and a game that can only so eloquently be put into words by the late, great James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams:

Baseball has always been such a special game to me. Our national pastime is there for me and everyone else every spring. Year in and year out, we relish in time spent at the ballpark eating hot dogs, watching fireworks, and celebrating the embodiment of the American dream come to life on the diamond. For me, baseball is more than just a game; it’s a lifestyle. I’m a 162-guy through and through and I can’t wait to get back into the swing(s) of it.

As excited as I am for baseball’s return, I will have to come to grips soon that I am also a Chicago White Sox fan. A loyal-to-death season ticket holder that keeps a passion for the team and the game they play. A passion that has passed down like an infectious disease from my South Side grandfather that saw the 1959 White Sox arrive at Midway Airport after clinching the American League Pennant, to my mother who accompanies me on Opening Day and whose earliest memories are at Comiskey Park reading the lineups, all the way to my future kids who will be stricken with this disease as well.

I’m thankful that I got to see the 2005 World Series Champion White Sox play because following the worst season in baseball history for the team last year, my hope and the hopes of South Siders everywhere can only go so high.

Because of a stupid TV deal, I can’t even watch the games at home this year without jumping through several flaming hoops. So, I got season tickets because I just love this game too much.

The team that doesn’t deserve my money after a historically awful run earned it despite being unwatchable, both in talent and on an actual broadcast. But if that ’05 team taught me anything, it’s Don’t Stop Believin’.

Because that’s the beauty of the game. Every year in late March, every team begins with zero wins and zero losses. Opening Day is the best day of the year because hope reigns supreme.

Going to baseball games is just part of what makes life fun during the spring and summer. From the time I was a kid until now, if you had a couple extra bucks in your pocket and needed something to do, you went to White Sox games.

It’s one of those things that I just loved as a kid and that love has remained until now. The peanuts, the hot dogs, the pattern on the outfield grass, the diamond, hearing people swear, seeing fireworks after White Sox home runs. All of it had such a profound effect on me.

Now, as a beer-drinking and hot dog-consuming adult, the only thing that has changed about all of those sights and sounds is my ability to buy the beer and the gut that has formed from enjoying all the beer and hot dogs.

Just a few of my hot dogs and beer from over the years

The best part about the ballgame and ballpark to me was always the time spent there. There was no clock. There was a first pitch time and there are at least 9 frames to play. Whoever has more runs and can get to 27 outs first, wins. It’s a beautiful game.

I’m not a fan of the pitch clock. I think it’s had some negative effects on the health of players that people are overlooking in replacement of shorter games. I always felt the length of the game was part of the atmosphere. That long afternoon at the ballpark socializing with friends, family, and other fans is what makes the game special.

You can stop worrying about the life that exists outside of the ballpark for 3-4 hours and just enjoy the beautiful afternoon or evening you’ve been given to watch a simple game that can be played by kids in a backyard, but at the highest level by athletes that were all once those kids in the backyard.

If you pause from watching the game to turn to your friends and catch up, you’re not missing any insane action. You might miss a pitch or two, but all the while, you’re enjoying the company you’re with. Because regardless of that conversation you’re locked into, it will pause at the crack of a bat.

My friends and I even turn the pitch speed into a drinking game if we can. Whoever guesses the correct pitch speed is “Safe” and the last one standing after a round of guesses buys the next round. All of that is possible because of baseball.

Here’s a gallery of just a few photos from over the last few years of friends and family accompanying me to the ol’ ballyard:

There’s a reason you saw some mix-in photos from above at Boston Red Sox games. My dad is from Boston and I’ve always been a dual-Sox fan because of him. My dad was my first baseball coach and I was raised to hate the Cubs and Yankees. Also, all part of the fun.

I touched on some of my Boston baseball experiences on the blog a few years ago when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2018.

My great grandfather on that Boston side, Bill Stewart, was also a National League Umpire for over 20 years after briefly playing for the Chicago White Sox and coaching the 1938 Chicago Black Hawks to a Stanley Cup as the first American-born coach to win a Stanley Cup. He’s in the Hall of Fame for both Baseball and Hockey.

Baseball Hall of Famer and N.L. Umpire Bill Stewart

Just like my great grandfather, I got to work in baseball. I was lucky enough and still blessed to have worked for both of the organizations I grew up a fan of. To this day, one of my best memories in life is getting to watch the Red Sox and White Sox from the owner’s seats at Fenway Park.

I had the opportunity to meet and work under the late Larry Lucchino during my time with the Triple-A Pawtucket Red Sox. He knew I was a White Sox fan and gave me and a few other interns his tickets to Fenway that night.

I didn’t wear any White Sox stuff to avoid any Elaine from Seinfeld situations, but being eye-level with then-White Sox Manager Ricky Renteria and one of my All-Time favorite White Sox, Jose Abreu, was just special.

Larry was a chairman of the Jimmy Fund and he helped the fight against cancer through baseball to his final day.

In 2019, I lost my friend Gabby to cancer and I don’t think the world’s seen a bigger White Sox fan than her.

When I got the opportunity to work for the White Sox in 2020 and the season was shortened due to COVID, I got to help bring fans into the ballpark in a unique way that season. We were one of the first organizations in the world that brought cardboard fan cutouts into the fan-less 2020 season as part of the FANtastic Faces initiative.

Gabby was one of those FANtastic Faces. She got to see one of two White Sox playoff teams before their untimely fall from grace and relevancy in 2022.

Baseball is a lot of things to a lot of people. As I explained above, it’s the hot dogs, the beer, the environment, the family and friends, and the fireworks.

It’s also a job for many people. It’s a way to remember friends who are no longer with us. It’s a window in time to America’s roots and sometimes, even your own family’s roots.

Every baseball season is a special one. Every moment spent in a ballpark with your loved ones is a moment well spent. Every win and loss is a memory.

So whether you love your team or hate them, whether your team picks up and moves cities or plays in a century-old ballpark, whether you can even watch your team on TV or not, baseball will always be there.

I leave you with two home runs from my two favorite players to ever play the game to help get you in the mood:

I’ll see you at the ballpark.

~DS