It was one of those moments where history doesn’t just whisper – it screams.
White smoke billowed over St. Peter’s Square, and in one quick breath, the world greeted Pope Leo XIV. American. Augustinian. Chicagoan.
In New York, the Empire State Building burned gold and white – heaven’s palette lighting up the skyline. The city that never sleeps stayed motionless for an instant, looking up in awe. Faith, it seems, can make even concrete jungles pause.
Three hours later, he had a trading card. Yes, an original Topps. No home run stats, but a foiled edition and a “White Smoke” variant that collectors are already fighting over. Baseball may be America’s pastime, but in this moment, so was papal memorabilia.
In Chicago, though, the true drama was unfolding: Sox or Cubs? The nation held its breath. An early Cubs tribute sent fans into a frenzy – until the pope’s brother, in true big brother fashion, straightened the record: he never was a Cubs fan. White Sox faithful. South Side forever.
Villanova shone bright, too – not with neon lights, but with purpose. The university where Pope Leo XIV once walked as plain Robert Prevost now reflected on what it felt like to have an Augustinian heart at the heart of the Vatican. His values – humble, warm, gentle strength – had been embedded in their DNA for years. Now, they belonged to the papacy.
And since no good Chicago tale is complete without a sandwich, Portillo’s stepped up. The Leo: slow-cooked Italian beef, dripping in that legendary gravy, topped with peppers or hot giardiniera, depending on your mood – or your prayers.
In a country where news is fleeting and icons change by the hour, something shifted. The sacred met the secular. And for one brief moment, faith wore a baseball cap, signed a rookie card, and tasted like gravy-drenched beef on a Chicago roll.
Because when the first American Pope steps onto the world stage, you don’t just say Habemus Papam – you light up the skyline, print the card, and name the sandwich.
Like
Comment