CHAPTER 1
Back to the Beginning
Home.
For more than thirty years, Phoenix has been my home. It is where I settled my young family so long ago and labored to build a business, a reputation, and a life.
But there was a time for me before that, a life before Phoenix, and it began in Chicago Heights, a working-class suburb south of Chicago. And today I have returned to Chicago Heights, to my first home. Today I have come full circle.
This is not to suggest that I haven't returned in three decades. Not at all. Not by a long shot. I still have family here. I still have friends here.
I still have my roots here.
Nonetheless, today—these past few days, in fact—are special, for reasons that are both personal and professional. For starters, I did not travel to Illinois alone, but accompanied the Arizona Diamondbacks, Major League Baseball's newest team, scheduled to playa three-game stand against the Chicago Cubs in Wrigley Field. The Cubs were the first team I loved, the team I loved and followed and supported during my early years-until March 9, 1995, when a group of investors I assembled and led was granted a MLB franchise that would soon become the Diamondbacks, a franchise I would head as the managing general partner.
And Wrigley Field.... Wrigley is a special gem of a ballpark, as beloved as the Cubbies themselves, and the stadium where I attended my first professional sports event. How old was I then? Seven years old? Eight? The place seemed immense, unbelievably gigantic. This was pretelevision, so the closest I could get was listening to the games over the radio. Seeing the players live, face-to-face, to actually be there, was incredible.
Back then, of course, I was happy—thrilled, even—to sit in the bleachers. Now, my seat is directly behind the visitors' dugout—the Diamondbacks' dugout. And I'm surrounded by dozens of old friends from the old neighborhood, whom I invited for this occasion.
Wrigley epitomizes what is best about baseball, with its foul lines set close to the stands, the ivy growing up the wall, the fans yelling and cheering from every corner. Wrigley is an integral piece of Chicago, part of the fabric of the community, as vital to Chicago as the subway or parks. Approaching Wrigley Field on the elevated train, affectionately known as the EI, the cars jammed with those going to the game, riding through the neighborhoods and past the apartment buildings and houses, so many of which have rickety wooden porches and staircases grafted onto the backs, facing the tracks, Wrigley slowly comes into view, big, solid, commanding. The energy on the streets surrounding the ballpark pulsing and electric; the sounds of the gathering inside Wrigley echoing in waves of exhilarated anticipation; the smells of the ballpark—hot dogs and peanuts and pizza and beer—mixing together, brewing a heady, unmistakable elixir; the roofs overlooking the ballpark filled with fans getting a free view of the game; traffic halting as people rush around buying hats and miniature bats and tickets; so much motion, so much excitement, so much laughter....
This is Chicago. This is baseball. This is terrific.
I recall another Cubs game in June 1993, almost exactly five years ago. I was in town because the Phoenix Suns were battling the Chicago Bulls in the NBA Finals. The team had an off night, and I came to Wrigley Field to take in a game. It was a night game, the first one I had ever seen at Wrigley, and the stadium was filled and the place was jumping. I sat there and imagined how terrific it would be to have Major League Baseball in Phoenix.
Two weeks later, I had a visit from a couple of fellow Arizonans—a politician and a lawyer—intent on achieving exactly that dream, bringing a major league expansion franchise to Arizona. They wanted my assistance; actually they wanted me to take the lead. I had to think long and hard and do some diligent investigating before determining if I was willing to assume that imposing commitment. A couple of months later, I made the decision to put together an investment group and raise the money and try to get that franchise for Arizona.
Now, half a decade later, I'm back at Wrigley, back with the Arizona Diamondbacks, back to take on the Cubs. The Diamondbacks won the first game, 5–4, before a sellout crowd. To return home with our own team and win ... amazing. The memories flood back. I remember being about nine years old, sitting in the upper deck at Wrigley, and Roy Campanella of the Dodgers, future Hall of Farner, smacked a foul ball right at me. I reached out my hand and the ball landed in my palm.
Which was more amazing? A nine-year-old's foul ball or a grown-up man's team winning one from the Cubs?
Why choose?
It has been a whirlwind trip, punctuated by events, flavored by family and friends, resonating with those memories. A couple of nights ago, the National Italian American Foundation held a dinner in my honor. Mayor Richard Daley was in attendance and declared Thursday, July 2, 1998, Jerry Colangelo Day throughout Chicago.
The Diamondbacks moved on to Houston this afternoon. After taking that first game from the Cubs, we lost the next two. We'll work to do better next time, and better yet the time after that. Count on it.
I've stayed in town because I've been invited to serve as the grand marshal for Chicago Heights's 1998 Independence Day parade, this year held on July 3. And so this morning we drove south to the Heights, a small caravan in tow, the cars filled with three of my four kids and seven of eight grandchildren. Having my family along with me to enjoy these events and this week renders it all that much more special.
We stopped at Louise and Frank Narcisi's house. I've known Frank since I was a kid. We played together and then, for a short while worked together, before I joined Dick Klein, and together we created the Bulls. Frank stayed in Chicago Heights, recently retiring as the superintendent of maintenance of Bloom Township High School, our old high school. I make sure that he and Louise travel to Phoenix each year for an extended visit.
Frank greeted us as we parked in his driveway. He and Louise had breakfast waiting, highlighted by a huge box of long johns, donuts stretched like long, thick cigars, topped by vanilla icing. Long johns are a tradition between us, reaching back to our youth, when we used to eat two each in the early morning to start the day.
The parade was much like those experienced across small-town America. The route wound down Chicago Road, which was lined with older people seated in their lawn chairs, families spread out on blankets, children chasing each other in circles.
A brief review of classic cars kicked off the parade, followed by a police motorcycle, a fire engine, both with sirens blaring, and a Marine Corps color guard. Politicians...
