“It’s a beautiful day for a ball game. Let’s play two. -Ernie Banks, “Mr. Cub”
It was about 7:00 a.m.—at least that’s how I remember it—in August of 1988, when our family friend Dave Busch, a freelance magazine and newspaper photographer, picked up my childhood friend Brad Cox and me from our homes in Lena, Illinois, population 2000. We were two wide-eyed 13-year-olds heading to Chicago for the day..without our parents. Even now, as a father of two, I’m amazed my parents let me go. But Dave, who didn’t have children of his own, had a reputation for being incredibly generous with the kids in town, and on that day, for reasons I’ll never fully understand, he chose Brad and me to join him on what he said would be a fun day of watching him take photos.
But these weren’t just any photos.
Our first stop was a luxurious private golf course where Dave said a few famous athletes would be playing in a charity tournament. That was more than enough to get me excited. We arrived shortly before lunch and were seated at one of dozens of round tables under a giant white outdoor tent. We hadn’t been there long when the golfers began making their way toward the lunch area—and toward us.
I still remember the jolt of disbelief in my chest when I caught sight of the first guest heading our way. Was that… could it really be… Dr. J? Sure enough, Julius Erving walked over, filled his plate with a hamburger the size of a Frisbee, and sat right at our table. His larger-than-life hands made the enormous burger look like a slider. And then, just like that, the rest of my childhood heroes followed. Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Steve Garvey, Lou Brock—all sat at our table.
Some company was there advertising these new massive cordless phones—you know, the kind from before cell phones—and they let me try to call my dad. I’ll never forget the feeling when Dr. J and Ernie Banks said they’d say hello to him if I got him on the line. But in a twist of unfortunate timing, my dad—who worked long hours as a barber—was away from the shop on his rare lunch break and didn’t pick up. Still, I was stunned by how kind and generous these icons were, as if meeting kids like us was the best part of their day.
I was such a nerd back then (and definitely still am), so of course I came prepared. I brought a manila envelope packed with newspaper clippings and sports cards—baseball, basketball, football—just in case the stories Dave was telling us actually came true. They did. Every single athlete signed everything I handed them. Eventually, Julius Erving smiled and said, “I think that’s enough, kid,” but not before signing a newspaper clipping of his final dunk before he retired the year before and my only basketball card of him.
After lunch, the three of us followed Ernie Banks and Billy Williams’ foursome around a few holes on the back nine like we were tagging along with our grandfathers. They told stories, asked us questions, and continued to treat us with genuine kindness. And yes—they took pictures with us, and they signed everything I had with their pictures on it.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, I was a massive Chicago sports fan. So when Dave told us it was time to move on, I thought the day couldn’t get any better. But I was wrong.
About 20 minutes later, we pulled into another gorgeous private course. This one had a huge banner hanging above the entrance that read: “Welcome Chicago Bears Alumni.” My heart skipped again. For the next hour, we rubbed elbows and collected autographs from some of the greatest Bears and NFL legends of all time. George Blanda stood out—not just for his name, but for how warm and human he was with us. He didn’t just sign his name—he talked to us like people, like we mattered.
By this point, I was convinced the day had reached its peak. But then Dave hit us with one last surprise. There was one more event he needed to shoot, an NBA charity golf outing—and rumor had it, Michael Jordan would be there.
Let me pause.
I was raised Catholic. I had served as an altar boy. So in that moment, I remember thinking: what did I do in my short life to deserve all of this? As Wayne, Mike Myers’ character from Wayne’s World, would say around that time, “I was not worthy.”
As we stood near the driving range, a roar erupted behind us. There he was—walking toward us—Michael Jordan. THE Michael Jordan. I froze. He was still a baby at that point. Maybe 25 or 26. He hadn’t won any NBA Championships yet and the Dream Team was still years away from dominating the Olympics, but there was already something god-like about him. He was a magnet. Everyone was drawn to him and wanted to touch him. I imagine the only thing that the aura of Michael Jordan at that time might compare to would be Beatle-mania. It was truly surreal to be in his presence breathing the same air.
As he drew closer, it felt like fans came pouring out of the woods. He was quickly mobbed, and security moved in. We never got closer than about 30 yards, but that didn’t matter. Just being near him was enough. I had seen Michael Jordan in real life. I had stood in his presence. That was everything. His teammate at the time and his playing partner that day, Cliff Livingston was kind enough to give us an autograph, and I remember him jokingly apologize for us having to “settle” for his instead of Mike’s. He was a great guy that somewhat made up for that lost MJ signature.
Now, by any reasonable standard, this day should have been over. But as we drove downtown, Dave said he had one last stop in mind. He knew what this day meant to me (even though he was a diehard Brewers fan!). He knew I was a diehard Cubs fan. And it just so happened that this night—August 8, 1988—was the first time Wrigley Field would ever host a night game under the lights.
The game was completely sold out, of course, so we parked nearby and walked over to Waveland Avenue, the street that runs behind the left field bleachers. The place was packed. Reporters, TV crews, die-hard fans—it felt like the whole city was there.
We hadn’t been there more than 20 minutes when the crowd erupted. Fans leaning out from the bleachers shouted down to us that Ryne Sandberg—my favorite player of all time—had just hit the first home run under the lights at Wrigley Field. We screamed, high-fived strangers, and we literally soaked in every second because someone poured beer all over poor Dave’s head. I watched the highlights the next day—if Ryno had hit it just 20 feet farther, that ball would have left the stadium and landed right in front of us on Waveland.
And then, like something out of a movie, the skies opened up with torrential rain. The game was called. Ryno’s homer never made it into the official record books. But none of that mattered to me.
I was there.
I saw Wrigley Field under the lights for the first time in history. I stood outside the stadium when Sandberg’s bat lit up the night. I experienced it all.
As we drove home, Brad and I road along in Dave’s old truck completely silent, almost weightless. I kept replaying the day over and over again. The laughter. The heroes. The moments I still can’t believe were real.
Thirty-seven years later, outside of my wedding day and the births of my two children, I don’t think there’s a single day from my past that I remember so vividly.
Sports, at their best, are more than just entertainment.
They’re magic.
And August 8, 1988, was my day of dreams.
RIP Dave – thank you for your friendship and for creating the greatest memory for a couple of 13-year olds who now share these stories with our kids!
Days like 8-8-88 remind me why I do what I do—because every young athlete deserves moments that shape them, inspire them, and stay with them for a lifetime. If you’re a parent, coach, or student-athlete navigating the journey from high school to college sports, I’d love to help. Visit coachmattrogers.com for free resources, the Significant Coaching & Recruiting podcasts, weekly blogs, and tools to make your own “day of dreams” a little closer to reality.
