This is Dedicated to the One I Love.

I just have to say something.

I love my state.

That’s right, I said it. I love Illinois.

Now, I have to admit that I haven’t traveled any further south than Springfield, but I’m sure they have some great things down there, too, even if they are Cardinals fans.

Illinois has to be one of the most diverse states in population and landscape. A vast majority of the state is rural farm land. I love that when I’m driving on those open country roads, I can see for miles. It’s a double edged sword during the winter, as I get blown around by the wind and the snow in my Prius (yes, you can laugh), but during the spring and summer, I can see freshly planted and growing fields of corn and soybeans.

Now, I’m about to get a little controversial, because I don’t just love the plains and prairies of Illinois.

I absolutely and 150% love the city of Chicago.

That’s right, I said it. I love Chicago.

To those from Southern Illinois, or SoIL: thanks for holding out until this point, but I’m pretty sure you’ve stopped reading after that last sentence. If you haven’t totally given up on me, excellent. Bear with me, there’s a lot more to this statement than you think.

Chicago has, and will, always hold a special place in my heart. You see, my dad was a basketball coach and a high school math teacher, so during the school year, especially during basketball season, I didn’t see him all that often. In no way am I saying that he was a neglectful parent; he was a loving father, and always made time to talk to us and spend time with us when he could. My dad had a passion for education, and knew what a difference being involved in extracurricular activities, like basketball, could make in the lives of young people. Because of this love and enthusiasm, he spent long hours commuting to the schools where he taught and coached teams in the sport he loved, and late hours in the night grading papers and preparing lessons for the following day.

During the summer, however, as anyone with teacher-parents like me knows, time is much more abundant. When the weather would turn warm, I knew that Dad and I would soon be spending an entire day in the coolest place in the world: Chicago. As a treat for me for good grades and getting to spend some time with my Dad, we would drive up, or take the train up, to the city and do anything and everything we could in one day. I fondly remember trips to Navy Pier, getting to swim at Oak Street Beach, exploring the Field Museum and Museum of Science and Industry, and looking across the great city, and Michigan and Indiana on clear days, from the Skydeck at the Sears Tower or the Hancock Center. I even remember one trip where he, along with my mom and middle sister, spent a few hours at the American Girl Store, which was my mecca as an 8-year-old.

Along with beautiful landmarks, there are several—in my opinion, AWESOME—sports teams in Chicago. The White Sox, Fire, Bulls, Bears, and 3-Time-In-6-Years Stanley Cup Dynasty Blackhawks all call the City of Broad Shoulders home.

One team, however, holds a special place in my heart.

The Lovable Losers.

The Baby Bears.

The Northsiders.

That’s right. I love the Chicago Cubs Baseball Team.

Known for their last World Series win in 1908, the Cubs are worldly renowned for their ability to continue to have hordes of loyal fans, despite the fact that they haven’t won a World Series in a century and counting. I get a lot of flak for continuing my love for the Cubbies, especially from the aforementioned St. Louis Cardinals fans with which I associate. Their confusion and ridicule stems from the cold, hard facts, and I don’t blame them one bit. Why would I continue to be steadfast when the thing they’re known for is regularly breaking their fans’ hearts?

I blame my father for that one, too.

Well, maybe not.

Dad had always claimed that he was but a “baseball fan” with no particular affiliation with any team, even though the Cubs games were the only ones we really watched. Trips to the Friendly Confines also punctuated my summers with more memories. Seeing the Green Ivy and tasting tangy Chicago Style Hot Dogs—ketchup-free, the way God intended—are etched in my mind.

For those of you that don’t know, my father, Larry Novotney, passed away suddenly on April 11^th, 2014. That city forever holds my heart in a way that I will never be able to fully explain. I lived for those summer trips, and loved that I got to spend them with my dad, just him and I. Despite the years of loss, I still love the Cubs. In spite of its poor reputation for being violent, I still love the city of Chicago. And even though it’s a corrupt and bankrupt state, I will always love Illinois. That team, that city, this state will always echo the love and memories that I have with my father. He was loyal, loving, and passionate about what he was: a teacher, a coach, and a father. He faced adversity and tragedy in his life, but always chose to continue to look forward and hope for the best. He was stubborn and outspoken at times. I am proud—and sometimes a little embarrassed—to say that he passed those traits on to me; those of which, I believe, are only further developed by my loyalty to the Cubs.

I miss my dad every day, especially during baseball season. However, whenever I hear “Go Cubs Go,” I know he’s not too far away.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad.