Attempting the time-honored tradition of buying bleacher tickets from a scalper, I find a seller, agree to a high price, and hand over the cash. Then I notice that one ticket is dated for the previous day’s game.
The guy with my cash takes off running.
“You fucker!” I shout, running after him down the alley behind Sports Corner.
“Stop him!” I call to a bunch of twentysomething guys in Dockers, who watch him run past. A parking attendant tries but fails to block him.
I chase him down a side street, between parked cars, to a gangway between apartments. He jumps over the fence. I use the latch and follow him through the alley and over the back fence.
He turns left, then stops and faces me. Oh shit, I think, realizing how stupid this is and that he might just haul off and pop me.
I take the turn wide to avoid getting too close. He’s standing there, panting, arm outstretched.
“Here’s your money, ma’am,” he says. “Nice run.”
Reader to Reader welcomes (and pays for) anecdotes, overheard conversations, and slices of city life from 20 to 200 words in length. Send yours to Reader to Reader, 11 E. Illinois, Chicago 60611, or E-mail to R2R@chireader.com.