It didn’t take long for him to line up an apartment. One of the men who had gotten a taste for Cal’s moonshine owned a three-story complex in Streetersville and offered Cal and Rosie a two bedroom on the third floor for fifteen dollars a month. The place was bare and in disrepair, but it came with two battered sofas, a chair, several pots, and a mattress in each room. The catch, other than the obvious—the place was a shithole that wasn’t worth a dime—was that the landlord wanted six months of fees upfront, a cost too steep for Cal’s wallet. Though it dipped deep into my savings, I fronted the money. It was the first year I couldn’t use extra cash to attend Cubs games, but they hadn’t been doing well over the last few years anyway, falling into a pattern of third place finishes. Cal was my World Series, and I was intent on winning.