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Omar’s hand?”
    Utley’s eyes grew big and his jaw dropped. He was shocked that some kid would know his secret. Yet for a strong moment, I could read the look of guilt on his face.
    Utley didn’t answer me. He zipped up his zipper, buttoned the top of his jeans, and headed toward the exit.
    I can’t speak for Kevin, but I had never used a men’s room without washing my hands. On this day, I made an exception. When Utley saw that we were following him, he sprinted out the door. We ran after him. My dad, who was waiting outside the men’s room for us, caught my eye.
    â€œThat’s him!” I shouted to Dad. “Blake Utley!”
    My dad morphed into linebacker mode, pursuing the POI. Utley was fast, but he struggled to slither through the crowded concourse. Dad, Kevin, and I remained hot on his tail. All the while, Dad was calling security on his walkie-talkie.
    â€œWe’re after him!” Dad blared. “Section 115!”
    Utley busted through the Connie’s Pizza line, causing yet another kid to spill his pop. We kept after him. Then, out of the blue, three security guards—including Bob Murphy—jumped in front of his path.
    Utley slammed on the brakes and ran back our way. He thought he could plow through us two kids and my old man, but boy was he wrong!
    My dad charged into him like an All-Pro defender greeting a ballcarrier, and Kevin and I piled on. Together, we brought him to the ground. My dad held him down until the security guards took over.
    â€œAre you Blake Utley?” Bob asked.
    â€œYes,” Utley said as the guards pulled him to his feet.
    â€œYou’re coming with us,” Bob said. “And you have a whole lot of explaining to do.”
    As Bob and his men took Utley away, the three of us followed.
    â€œAre you kids okay?” Dad asked us.
    We were fine, but Dad looked a bit shaken up.
    â€œThat was my first tackle in twenty-five years!” he said proudly.
    Utley had gone down in the top of the seventh inning. By the eighth, “breaking news” spread like wildfire. Dad, Kevin, and I huddled in front of a TV near the Connie’s Pizza booth. The Cubs game was on ESPN, and these words scrolled below:
    The Cubs have announced that eleven-year-old Omar Ovozi was NOT responsible for spilling Pepsi on Andres Cabrera during the September 22 Cubs–Reds game.
    â€œOh, my gosh!” I cried, excitedly.
    â€œYes!” Kevin shouted, pumping his fist.
    We read on:
    Reds fan Blake Utley, age twenty, has admitted to knocking the cup out of the boy’s hand. Utley said he intentionally tried to spill soda on Cabrera’s face so that he would not catch the ball.
    â€œYeahhhhh!” Kev and I blared, jumping up and down and smacking each other with double high-fives.
    â€œI hope Omar is watching this,” Dad said.
    â€œIf he is,” Kevin said, “he’s probably like this.”
    Imitating Omar, Kevin stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers, and busted out a couple karate moves.
    â€œThat’s so Omar!” I said, cracking up.
    Meanwhile, more good news was brewing. With two men on in the eighth, Cubs’ slugger Manny Costada rocketed a shot into left field. We ran toward the seats to witness the historic blast. Amid a deafening roar, the ball sailed out of Wrigley and onto Waveland Avenue.
    The Cubs were up 3–2! Fans from two to ninety-two jumped up and down, pumping their fists in the air. Kevin gave me a big “guy” hug, and Dad emitted a loud “woooo-hoooo!”
    Should the Cubs win, anything associated with the “Curse of Omar” would be completely forgotten. Happy days would return to Wrigleyville.
    And the Cubs
did
win. Chicago closer Bobby “Lights Out” Lackey struck out the side in the ninth. And what a scene! Cubs players mobbed their pitcher. Delirious fans—believing that this could be the year—sang the Wrigley victory song “Go,